


Caught 'Twixt Love and Nausea Part II

by Kimbeen



Series: Caught 'Twixt Love and Nausea [2]
Category: Maurice (1987), Maurice - E. M. Forster
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-23 11:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 48,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3767224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kimbeen/pseuds/Kimbeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part II</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In which I lack the imagination to come up with another title. But this is a second part, not strictly a sequel, so suffices

Chapter 1

 

Even though this is to be, ostensible, a rousing, jolly, community-building cricket match between the Park and the Village, it is my genuine belief that the two teams _are_ equals and differences of district and social class do not matter a fig. Why? Because their gear is all being cleaned, in one big heap, by a single poor sod – me.

 

Why this is so I do not know. Maybe it's because it's gotten around that I'm a dab hand at the game – it's true – but in that case I should be out on the green we was just preparing and warming up, not scraping dried mud from the ridges of thigh guards and gloves. I'm anxious about getting away kind of early, actually, as I want to have a scrub down the river before the game and present myself presentable. Sal says that my whites are waiting with the others' in the servants' hallway, folded up on a window with my name pinned on – I were that touched by this gesture that I very near kissed her on the cheek but I managed to control myself, for once. Not something I can say often this weather!

 

Still I'm whistling – in between grunts of effort as I scrape with my penknife, and eventually at the smaller annoying corners with my fingernails. See, they was glistening this morning! Now I look like I've been doing army manoeuvres all night. The cricket gear was being used by the other lads last night, David and Bobs the grooms and Charlie that cheeky no-mark from the house, and a few of the kitchen fellers too. I was otherwise occupied; I told them I was out poaching. Not sure whether to believe me, they laugh and invite me to go pick out some of the better sporting equipment; only for Simcox to loom out and force me to clean the whole lot of it.

 

No good deed I suppose! Still – I'm whistling. Scrape scrape scrape. Repetitive movement. Focus. Don't close my eyes and drift off into the distance. _Certainly_ don't crane my neck around and keep gawping at the house, at the wet walls glinting in the distance, the loose tiles on the parlour-roof, the ivy a-creeping round that window like slowly approaching fingers – Nay lad! Focus!!

 

Conditions are good for the match; after all that rain we're being blessed with some nice clement weather, sun and fluffy clouds and a soft breeze that barely stirs the dandelion clocks. Ma says – it's strictly for girls though, _don't_ think I'm going to try it – that if ye can blow all of the seeds from a single dandelion clock in one fell swoop – or blow, come to that – then you and your true love are a-destined to be. But if a few seeds stay on it, your lover has reservations. So I'm not about to risk it. I could do without confirmation either which way! Mystery makes life reet more fun, right?! Though a little confidence could be, would be most welcome.

 

I ponder and wonder whether they play cricket in the Argentine. I've heard tell it's taking on a popularity over and abroad in various parts of the Empire – for toffs only, I'll wager. Imagine the locals out there, the natives, bowling and batting with the best of them! Them like the squire and his mates! Not that they're all... they could be... he... Anyroad, it's about as silly a notion as this caper here today. Park versus Village, did you Adam and Ever!

 

It would suit me grand if there weren't any cricket where I'm headed; I dislike it. But if there's no one to have a kickabout with I shall abandon all hope and optimism. There's nothing just like a game of footie with your mates and no mistake! In fact I must make a mental note to pack a football with me, just in case there's none to be found out there and I'm reduced to wiring my parents for to send one. Yes, that'll be a good way to strike up a friendship with the other fellas out there, when Fred gets inevitably bored with minding me.

 

But.. what if we was playing, and the football were to bounce into the rainforest? What if it were to burst on – on the tusk of a wild boar?? Surely there must be shops over there. I don't think I've quizzed Freddie enough on the actual rudamentals of my future home. Come to think on it, I really haven’t spoken to him about it at all, just took it as read and said my thank-yous.

Standing up and shaking a lot of the dust off, I despair at the disrepair of my clothes. Though I'll get to wear something smart for once, today. Generally I wouldn’t wear white for all the tea in China – it'd get right filthy within five minutes of me leaving the house, never mind lasting as long as a day. Ma wonders whether I spend my leisure time a-rolling about in the mud, my pants and shirt and jacket does be that encrusted when I hands them over to her to wash. I'm thinking I'll be keeping the details of my 'leisure time' firmly under my hat – now more than ever. Mother's love has a limit, I'd say, just like everything else! And as for Da... the deeper he keeps he head in the sand the better!

 

All the same I'd like to wash my arms, and hands, and face and neck, everywhere really, not just dirt but sweat from work and nerves. One must keep one's cool when one is up at the wicket! Ha ha!

 

Ey, nice bit of sporting gear that really – especially as it's been given the Scudder deep cleaning treatment. I try on some of the fancier items, swinging the bat about and tossing the ball in the air. I don't practice bowling for fear of losing one of the balls in the hedgerow; Simcox won't descend to cleaning any of this equipment but you can bet damn hell he's counted everything and filed them away in his dreary wispy old head. Nice to be trusted, it is! So by the time Sims comes back to check on me, I've all the protective gear neatly stacked out and the balls and bats accumulated together, ready for moving over to the green.

 

“About time, Scudder, I expected you to finish and report for more orders an hour ago. Wasn't really a lot of point in you organizing it there; still, it'll make it easier for you to carry it over to where they're setting up the pavilion.”

 

I hadn't realized I was to receive the further privilege of carrying everything - in, it's emphasized, the fewest trips possible – across the side garden and through the flower-wood to the park. What a little treat, eh? I must have been Jack the Ripper in a previous life, I tell thee.

 

As he strides several steps ahead of me, though it interferes with his puff, Simcox delivers over his shoulder: “You're to be captain in Master Durham's absence.”

 

A-tripping and slipping on the wet grass, and juggling on my arms and shoulders and when needs-be knees, the entire supply of leg-guards, squeak I: “Me?!” This furrows my brow and not a lot does. Of course Durham is away greasing up the voters, but surely the hierarchy doesn't go from him directly to me? Are there not several – dozen – steps in between us?

 

“You're the youngest, fittest, most sportive -” I nearly faint from this barrage of praise – I mean he's _right_ , does he realize how right - and he turns to send me a look dominated by an unimpressed eyebrow. “Though you look like you've not slept in days. Smarten up lad! At your age you should be taking advantage of your youth and vitality, not putting your body through the rigours of... excess. Some sporting activity is just the thing.” Is he giving me the same lecture he spluttered out to the squire all those innocent years ago? Could – ah shit, dropped a guard. Shit, another one. Stooping, I continue to hobble onwards.

 

“Of course it's unfortunate that Master Durham is to miss the opening innings.. Though the important thing now is to aspire to win the game in his name, get a good advantage in the score before he arrives this afternoon.. hopefully. I _had_ deemed it pertinent to ask Mr. Hall to captain in Mr. Durham's stead but he declined, as is his... wont, and he nominated you.”

 

Huffing for breath, it's difficult to simultaneously speak, but I wheeze, “He... me?”

 

Simcox stops, finally, beside a tent that is slowly wobbling skyward as a few of the lads erect the poles inside. “He recommended that we chair our best cricketer, and such as you are...”

I drop some of the guards and carefully place down the remainder. Nudging them with my feet, I tidy them and tip my hat to Simcox, for the compliment, I suppose? “Thank you, sir.”

 

“Further, Mr. Hall asks you not to put him on first, but later, say, eighth, alright?”

 

I have only been captain about sixty seconds and haven't given any thought to the game-plan and formation of the players. My players. “Er... right you are sir.” That'll be forever away though, can I wait that long to see him? At least he's coming down to play, at least he's alright... He looked grand when I last saw him but then again it's difficult to gauge how a person really is inside when they look, visibly, with your eyes, alright, that is, laid back on pillows watching you disappear down a ladder from their window, a little quiet but collected. My finger is back in my mouth as I mull over whether he is completely accustomed to midnight servants to-ing and fro-ing from his chambers. His voice: _I haven't ever_ ...

 

“Don't bite your fingernails lad! It's crass common! And your hands are filthy!” An infinitely less sweet and pleasing voice, Simcox sweeps a pointed finger back to the storage sheds where I spent all morning, cross-legged and cleaning: “Now get the rest of that lot over sharpish! Match starts soon and you'll need to gather the team together, God help us.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  



	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 

Cracking game so far!! _Swish_ and a _crack_ of the leather on the willow. I'm absolutely ace at cricket. Would you believe me if I'd told you? Here's the pudding. Our team are well in and it must be down to my captainship; I keep everyone roused and ready with encouragements and whistles. So determined are they, they don't even acknowledge me!

 

Another run! I swing the bat around joyful and wink at Davey as he finger-whistles for me. To him I say, “I shall pack in the labouring and apply for myself a sports scholarship to a reet exclusive public school, what do you say?”

Bashing my arm, “Alec, you're about ten years too late to apply for school, mate. And even if you did, it'd take you abaht _another_ ten year to learn your alphy-bet!”

“Oi! That so? Well you know what I know how to spell - ?” and I lift my fist to commence to the old 'V-sign' two-finger salute; half-way I remember there are ladies and gentlemen present and quickly give him a military salute with my fingers at my temple, stood rigid; Davey cackles and copies me and we march back into place for the next inning, left, right! Left, right! Ra ra ra! Ha ha ha!! Can't remember when my spirits were so skyward!

 

You could say it's been a very heady day, especially if you date the day not from this morning or noon-time but from twelve-o-clock last night. A red letter day for Alec. Nothing can go wrong. And maybe not just for me?

 

Where is he? Swivelling my head round towards the house is giving me a crick in my neck. He should just come down like he said he would; I've put him in fifth because I'm captain and I don't want him to be lurking on the sidelines, chatting and taking tea with the Durham constabulary on their lawn chairs, fanning theyselves. He should be here with me, helping us win this here game and give them villagers what what for.. It occurs to me that Simcox said Mr. Hall didn't want to be captain, and he didn't want to go on early. It's not lost on me that both of these indicators would suggest a lack of enthusiasm and sportsmanship – but he'll change his mind once he's here sucking in the warm Summer air and a-working those limbs like he should. Jogging on the spot, I feel like telling Simcox I am indeed making the 'most of my youth' haw haw!

 

God, where _is_ he? I want to show him my talents, we're running away with it – well the score is quite close but that only adds to the excitement of the game. It's ours for the taking, but I need my bloody full squadron! A well-rested fifth might be of some advantage; then again I know personal that he spent at least part of the night _not_ sleeping. Though I do know he got a little, and that he likes to roll on his left side.. I like to roll on me right but I adjusted myself so as to wrap my arms around him...

 

“ALEC!! Heads up – oh _fuck_ you've missed it!! Sorry, ma'am, sorry miss, ma'am... Begging your pardon sir, slip of the tongue, won't happen again...” Oh no! I was in total readiness with the bat and then my mind went clean away. This is your fault, Maurice!

 

“This is your fault, Alec! You're away with the fairies this morning!” Sam the maintenance feller comes over and clouts me over the head with the bat he's snatched. OWCH. Tittering and whispering from the pavilion underneath the parasols. Apparently swearing is frowned upon, but publicly assaulting one of your staff members is met with tolerance bordering upon approval making its way into amusement! “Not so _hard,_ idiot!” I glare at Sam who's red-faced, and I rub my head. There'll be a lump

 

OH! Crackers! Here he is at long, long last! Immediately I stop rubbing my head and smoothen my hair instead, and whip my cap back on jaunty. Licking my lips, I observe that he looks as tired and ashen-faced and moody as he did these last few days; perhaps it is some ailment. Well, I know for a fact that I can chase that melancholy away, oh yes. Not in the same fashion as last night, but my body feels alive again and I'm elated to be out here physical with him.

Gulp. Taking the bat reluctant and letting it hang somewhat listless, he swings it a little to get used to the weight and feel and plants himself into waiting position, as I tap my own bat against my heels preparatory and look up at him under my brim, nothing unusual, any captain would size up his team members, survey the talent -

 

\- but now, his waiting stance, he's ready, shoulders broad, whites perfectly displaying his long, lean body, mouth set, nose in the air, blue eyes a-watching under his hat, his hair that's escaped fluffing in the breeze – was all this contrived by some entity to throw me off the game entire!

 

Because – to my horror – here it comes again, my clumsiness, lack of finesse as the balls being bowled at me sail right past as I swing every which way but bollocks, and from the sides I can hear both groans and titters. Most unwelcome. “Come on, Scudder!” calls Ayres, but he's about pissing himself with laughter as he says so, not in a way that would kindle any confidence in me! Schoolmasters all over again; what is it about the last few days that's sent me right back to boyhood.

 

Still, every time I swish the bat he anticipates, incorrectly, that I'm actually aiming true, and as he watches, the ball goes way over yonder and he jerks his body barely perceptible, a-waiting on me to start playing proper. More than a little irritated, when his turn comes up he repositions himself stiffer than ever, and I can't help but grin – almost laugh – like a fool at him. It's what he's that different in daylight – pompous and rigid and fussy but no less loveable. As I peer at him to see his reaction to my secret smile, my expression and extension of friendship, for us, private, for all else here – polite – he doesn't smile, exactly, but his eyes soften and his jaw relaxes neutral, before flashing into a gritted-teeth concentration that meets the next ball that's fired at him. As to me, he's too distracting for me to play well anymore and I can't tell this to any of the lads and I can't mind at all.

 

Bending and stretching for another go, I'm panting with excitement and exercise and exertion and exhilaration. Maurice's chest heaves too, in, out, up and down, and he wipes his neck with his sleeve, dear dear, very slovenly sir! Look at the two of us, right here for every-one to look at. So much between us, connexions like, but what we done might keep us apart too.. I cannae believe that right now. Right now all's washed away. Aye, that ball is flying, and us lads play heart and soul! Feeling it too, Mr. Hall?

 

For now he's playing – whoa! - with some kind of renewed energy and skill and not meeting my eyes much but somehow noticing and twitching his lips at my most rotten and pitiful of pitches.

 

Again: “Come on, Alec!” No, not Maurice, someone from our team, but still, yes, come on me! Pull up your socks lad, can't you see that he's more amused than impressed, how could our roles have switched so quickly? Then again last night has taken on the quality of a dream. I know it happened, but perhaps it _was_ only in a dream. Drilling my eyes into his, I check to see – and yes, if it _was_ mere fancy, then it was a mutual one. He know it – knows me. And so back to batting this time I try to aim properly, as I want the points and I want to crack that ball wholesale, right out of the pitch, and to look round, hearing clapping, nodding, knowing, having won. This is almost as fun as last night! You and me sir! We can keep the connexion we have, we can put it to other uses, we can show it to others even and delight in the physics of each other!

 

I – oh, speaking of sirs....Here he comes, the squire, all done up in his college greens and browns and a charming, lop-sided smile on his bloody, handsome face. Dropping my hand and the bat with it, I turn away, suddenly more ablush with sweat at seeing Durham than Mr. Hall. Now I stop to think on it, what exactly _would_ happen if last night's escapades should get back to Mr. Durham, my employer and social superior and local representative in the offing and sovereign supreme over Penge? It's his house after all, and Mr. Hall is his best friend... Shit. But he may not say anything; it's not exactly something to boast about in the smoking-room I'll wager. Or maybe it's common to engage in pursuits with the help and brush them off and laugh and compare and nudge and rib and wink all over some port and cigars? No, nonsense... I'm getting confused.

 

I feel Maurice's eyes on me, soft and watchful, as I deliver the bat to Durham who takes it distractedly; I don't want to look at Maurice as our eyes meeting might well trigger some blasted physical reaction in me – I may blush, or faint like a lady, or vomit, or rush madly into his embrace. I flop down beside old Ayres and rest my elbows on my knees, suddenly dizzy and droopy-eyed with exhaustion. Was in bubble until now; the reality of the situation is the tension pumping in my head. Blast not being able to have a proper drink!

 

Dawdling over the game, and meandering out the time frustratedly between the runs, if even they could be called that, Mr. Hall and Mr. Durham chat about this and that, swinging bats, laughing and patting each others' shoulders, larking about, and no one bats an eye over it; in fact the women look on fondly over their fans and lemonades, approving. Moodily I chew on a wisp of grass and undo the knots in my protective gear as my delight from last night and interest in the match nosedive in tandem. What does it matter who wins, really? Same people, same person always takes home the prize.

 

Earlier, Simcox implied that Hall would be the natural choice to step in for Durham as captain, that such was their similarity that one could easily be the other's proxy. Well, I'm servant to Mr. Durham. Does that mean that I'm pretty much servant to Mr. Hall too? What if he interprets last night as merely services rendered (and heaven forfend will waylay me at some juncture, express his thanks and press into my hand a tip!!) - well, Alec, what of it? It's maybe true. I offered – he took – we were together and soon he'll be back where he belongs in the City and I'll be even further away, hundreds of miles and Penge will seem like a haunted house of mist and memory. These _thoughts_. I flop backwards onto the grass and glare at the clouds for a while, listening to the chattering and the glasses clinking and the monotonously slow game, with far too long between whacks of the willow. It's getting cloudier up above.

 

Gloomily, I watch him go out frightful early and then stuttering, stumbling, eyes avoiding and mouth twisted, whirl and waver in the direction of the house. So the spell's been broken for him too. I don't rise to my feet with the rest of the help to signal his passing; I'm afraid I might follow him.

 

 

  


 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 

Sun's hanging low in the sky and you can get some heat out of it, not that you'd want it after racing about all afternoon swinging a bat about! So we's having to be shielding our eyes and even so a-squinting through them to make out even each other, it's a right pain in the proverbial.

 

Weather-wise the day wasn't much good, take it all around. Maurice-wise neither – haven't seen hide nor hair of him since he retreated at top speed back into the house this morning – back to his realm, away from mine. Haven't seen Durham neither but that's not so surprizing – his arsing around on the cricket pitch for show and subsequent political pontificating over with, he's dropped the bat after about a half hour and the match dwindled away, even though it's not as if his absence should herald a drop in quality; he was no-where near our most outstanding player! I'd point out who is but I'm too modest; that's my trouble.

 

Feeling damp and defeated and down; I think I might be in a depression, what they call it. **Sigh** To be fair and frank with you, I'd gotten right used to Mr. Hall's lightening presence at Penge, even before we – before last night, the way I might see him from the bottom of the drive-way above at the front entrance to the house, or happen across him smoking out in the fragrant orchard, too mannerly of course to lounge against the wall as I, or maybe spy him making his way to or from the carriage as he goes about his business, or commerce, or financial bargaining, whatever it his that his professional mind is mired in. I only know him on a personal level. And physical, I suppose. Flushes.

 

Now I feel lost, bereft. Place seems dull, wet, plodding – labourous, a place of work, which I suppose truth to be told it is. But it's also the place where we came together – somehow there was room for that and the space of a few mad hours. We. I don't feel it was all on me either: he called me. He wanted _me_. Yes I was active in responding, yes I drove the cart but he was a willing passenger... As he is well aware. I won't be made feel as if I coerced him into – into something sinning and fornicating! He's left me with all the blame and responsibility – yet he got as much out of it as I!! Maybe _more_ as it were clearly something he were a-hankering after for God knows how long – his life long entire, mebbe. Job well done, Scudder. Well, it weren't no job and I know flaming well I was good!

 

I knit me brows and kick the ground in frustration: he's gone away hiding somewhere and I'm lumbered ripping up these tent-poles from the ground. The lads drove them too damn deep into the green, and now they're a bitch to pull out! Feels like pulling trees! As we're all working, the lads, between grunts and swears, discuss the devilish details in the match and its outcome, the effect of the conditions and the plays chosen, the state of the green and the equipment, the wind direction, the savvy decisions of the captain (thank'ee lads! I am of course in ear-shot!), the players.. especially those who descended to come down from the house and get dirty a-tossing the ball around..

 

“Though of course that may'nt be the _first_ that old Durham has gotten dirty with his old college pal, from what I hear!” chortles Steve, and I freeze and my ears prick themselves up.

 

“Oh yer, I'd say they've given each other many's a grass-stain afore!” laughs Davey, and he not being one to joke maliciously usually (not so much as me anyroad!), I turn my head slowly over to look at him shaking his head and chuckling, “Oh lordy. Ah now look at his one, I'm after making a crater in the lawn after it. But it wasn't my fault! Bloody fecker wouldn't come out wiv'out me a-twisting and tweaking it! What'll I use to fill it in? Before Simcox or Ayres or Radley clocks a gander and I'm for it...”

 

Steve: “Just lev it there and say it's for croquet, you could well be praised for it!”

 

Davey: “Aw, cop on, Steve! Radley'll get the right 'ump wiv' me..”

 

Steve: “Alright, sure plonk a plant pot over it, they'll never twig..”

 

Davey: “...Yer, that might do it! Nice one, mate! Here help me move this... Alec? Hey!”

 

I can hear but I'm not listening. Or, I'm listening but I'm not really copping what they're on about, what they've really said after...

 

Grass-stains? College pal? Suddenly my poor and typically un-taxed brain is going a mile a minute as the clues all come together in a way that might be described as mathematical, if'n I had the foggiest idea what maths is all about except that you have to work things out and scribble them to come up with one, clear, immoveable singular answer: Mr. Durham and Mr. Hall? Is it so – unlikely? Strange? What Simcox said, red-faced about Durham and his trying to jump-start his interest and inquisitiveness about women. And true enough, married he may be but no sign of any sprogs though there's a whole house and estate that'll need inheriting!

 

As for Mr. Hall... Maurice... He's – was – is – dammit – _clearly_ weak for the touch of a man. It's weakened him even. (Though he's suddenly and presently strong enough to evade _me_!) Durham and Hall.. why would it not have occurred to me before, usually I can get peoples' number, all the better for not talking to them but just observing from afar.

 

“ _Thanks_ for your help, Alec,” Davey pokes me in the side with the dirty tent-pole. It hurts more than he meant it to (probably!), and “Coming to the pub now? Ah, you heard _that_ alright!”

 

“What, now?” I say the first words I have done in hours. My tongue feels dry and my usual talking apparatus rusty and useless. “It's only the afternoon, we've ages to go yet till we're punched out.” There's no actual punch-cards at this job; more likely to be actual punching at the end of the day the place is such a tinderbox of colliding emotions and classes and opinions and incomes and, apparently, sexual inclinations. Maybe me and Maurice's encounter isn't so queer after all...

 

“Yer lad,” says Dave, pulling me by the elbow and I go willingly, “It's traditional arter the Park n' Village game for the players entire to get down the local afterward for a few friendly scoops and a dissection of the match. But it's _also_ an un-spoken tradition that the toffs find that they always have some kind of matters to attend to and regretfully must leave us muck-rollers to it!” He winks and I look round, seeing Ayres a-pulling on his coat and the other lads and lasses too buttoning up and tying lacers and all laughing and skipping and racing each other to the style that leads to the side lane-way which wends its way around the woods to the village. I were that far away in a land of me own!

 

“You're having me on! You're not! Fucking champion!” I grin and Davy laughs at this and we quicken our step; not a run broken as we need to conserve our energy for some serious rising of the wrist down the pub! Onward!

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

 

Dizzy... ught nice to get some fresh air, it would be... Even though I should, by all accounts, be in me element here... drinking heavily, uproarious music, laughter, a girl on me knee.. at least there was at some stage.. who was she? Where'd she go? Never mind... lots of them here and lovely to look on.. though it's a bit hard to keep my eyes open, or focussed or, interested enough in one thing..

 

Can't relax somehow, in fact my shoulders are right paining me for tensing up further and further with every passing half-hour, despite me knocking back ale after ale.

 

“Come on Alec! Let's have a dancey!” One or other of the lads is calling me, then _dragging_ me to the middle of the floor where there is a riot going on – or, if you like, a right royal reel. Does nothing for the state of my head I tell thee! So as not to seem dry, of course, I let myself get mauled about for a bit before squeezing my way over to the front door, keeping upright and bending and dodging, avoiding grabbing arms and flailing legs in a way that might actually _resemble_ dancing, especially to the ear splitting piano! I remember donkey's years ago, the first time I was ever out on the pub I were probably about twelve and still in short pants I reckon, I was a-clutching me drink and trying to cross a rumbustious room like this one when I slipped down a crack between some dozy dancing people like quicksand and would have met my end there had Cyril Reilly, senior miner and friend of me dad's, not leaned in and fished me out, me sucking in air, he a-roaring laughing. I were covered in me beer, and were sent home immediate with a pocketful of toffees. Didn't put me off for long!

 

All these people though, there's too much going on to take in, too many people so alive and evident, when there's only one I want and he's away God knows where.

 

Maurice. I think of him longing; I miss him already and am desperate, much more so than after the trouble over the tip, to make things right between us as they seem to have gotten pear-shaped and uncertain and distant, yet again. When after what we shared? The opposite should be true.

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

 

Aaaah....breathing in that cold, fresh air after the sweaty atmosphere of the pub; finally there's enough room out here for to roll a fag. I perch on a window-sill and get to it, lamenting that I doled out my pre-rollies to me mates inside. Though truth be told I offered my tin to Peter and the others took this as an open invitation – but that's the lads for you! Salt of the earth, that's what they be to me! Mind you I'd be boiling over if one or other of them took the _last_ of me bac – I've been dying for a puff and though there was a thick fog inside in the Soggy Dew, I tend not to smoke inside when there's a huge crowd of people – for fear of burning someone. I remember as lass I knew once showing me a right horrifying variety of little scars all over her arms and legs – and one or more in other places too – all from fags being poked and pressed around in close quarters dancing down the pub or dance-hall or concert or shin-dig. 'Cording to her – she a little older than me and I tended to just take her words as teachings – it was a mere unfortunatality of the social scene – rather like getting blisters from walking too much or thorns from blackberrying. P'raps, p'raps, but all the same I hate to think on burning some poor creature's skin when she's just out for a good time with her lovely long lithe arms on display – fellers I wouldn't be as concerned about, now, they wear their sleeves more often and probably have tougher skin and at any rate can pull off a scar or two easier, even pridier!

 

Tipping my hat here and there to passers-by I know'd since I were a bairn, I put my rollie to my lips and suck it in ponderously, meditative-like – as if I do anything any other-wise these days. The only time I weren't over-thinking my actions and intentions and inhibitions and doubts and fears and wonderings were up there, sliding about in that white cotton with him, and knowing exactly how long and how deep to kiss him and lick his neck and caress his back and lean my weight on him and have him press me into the mattress himsel.. Shit! Not a good train of thought to be entertainin' when's I'm in public, busy enou as the street is. Quick, better walk it off. Putting my hands in my pockets, I heave up and try to adjust my pants, or I'll have to whip off my coat and hold it in front of me like a flag to a bull so as to keep my tattered dignity!

 

Trotting along unsteadily, I puff on my fag no-handed – that's a trick to learn, just keep it one side of your mouth and blow out the smoke the other side! Takes a while to master, mind – many's a stick I spat out into the street, it a waste and me a wally. But actually I rather need my hands to keep my balance – Ayres was buying, then Chapman, and Steve got plastered and started getting them in, then Davey snuck me over a whiskey to have with him, private, chuckling, and now I'm not sure it were that or the three following ciders that has me following a path more like the flight of a bumblebee than the crow flying. I _know_ I should be walking a straight line down the footpath but somehow it's not happening, my legs taking a different tack altogether. Whoops! Shoulder crash. “Sorry mate.” “Alright, Alec, see yourself home safe won't you? ... Youngsters!”

 

Stumbling through the fog, past shops, pubs, flower baskets, milk cans, post boxes, lamp-posts, bushes, signs, low stone walls, cottages, smoking, greeting, tripping, trying to browbeat my poor brain to its fullest extent to find a way to return him to me. Who knows where he's gone – home? And when he'll be back – never? And will he think of me, want me, reach out to me, have me – no? No! Need to prod my brain-box into action. My heart is already chugging and piston-ing like an engine and what good is that doing me? Sweet Fanny Arkwright, that's for sure and certain. My heart took me up that ladder – well, that and me downstairs department – but there were no – afters, no forward thinking. Did I even consider that one night wouldn't be _nearly_ enough, that all it would really do, did, was whet my appetite? Now I know him better I want him more and more. Yes, he's less mysterious and brooding and alluring but even more, he's more luscious and warm and adorable. Who would have _thunk_ it!

 

This is a piss poor state to be in, though. Ridiculous carry-on. I should be back in the pub having a good time wi'me mates, spinning long, colourful, knotted, patched-up, crazy, impossible, yarns about me future fortunes on the Argentine, far away from here when I'm sure to be a real success story. Feels as though I've already used up my life-time supply of crazy and impossible, though.

 

No, but... Closing my eyes, sway into the railings of the park and clutch them upright. That instant.. that eternal moment when he kissed me back and his arms went round me, like a drowning man or I the prodigal son returned, his arms being the perfect fit for my shoulders, or he made it so anyway. Re-determined, I know I captured him, he just needs a friendly reminder of that fact. Of that night. Preferably a re-enactment. That's it exactly! No, he can't run away from this – nor escape with carriage, train, motor-car horseback!

 

I wend my way to the Post Office, jangle the bell when I enter and pull out coins, counting them on the counter in front of Greg'ry who runs the place for his Ma.

 

“Leaving it late enough, Alec,” he remarks as I peer at the sign beside his window for to check the prices. I don't send a lot of telegrams, truth be told.

 

“Oh well.. I fair thought you'd appreciate the excursion,” - with a grin of course. He chews on his tongue sideways and has to grin back – I know, and he know, that he appreciates the extra journey about as much as I like getting about a hundred more rabbits to do for up at the estate.

 

“Urgent?” He's looking down at the card I've started scrawling on.

 

“Yes, and important with it. Er – yeh, that about covers it. No sense going over the limit is there?” I print down the address carefully – when I were carting Maurice's luggage about I had a sticky-beak at the labels and memorized it – that is to say, I happen to remember having read it. Greg'ry removes himself heroically from his stool and takes down his coat, sighing, and calling to his mother that he's away to the train station.

 

COME BACK I've said – plain and simple. Of course there's a lot more I want to say to him – all I want to spill out all over him would cost me a packet in telegram words! Books I could say! But this is most important. This is it. He'll come back, we can talk, I can wrap myself roun' him and keep him there this time. Forget about the _Normannia_ , about Durham, about Fred, about rabbits and dogs and dripping ceilings.

 

We should have – we _shall_ have another romp, make no bones about it sir. I said, and that makes it so – you do as you're told now.

 

Happier now, and somehow more sober and refreshed, I saunter away, Greg'ry pedalling past me with a ring from his bicycle-bell. There it goes! I wave and then spin round, turning in the opposite direction for to race back to Penge. Beeline for the boat-house, and so will he.

  



	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

 

“... a complete sodding mess. But you already saw that for yourselves. Which means that the carpets will have to be completely pulled up – I'm not sure how attached they are to the floor, but _mind_ the skirting boards when you do so – won't you? The last thing we need is for them to get scraped too – although they have the damp in them also, they might just struggle through for another few years. Now, we need to get started on this quickly, as the Season is still in full swing, but we'll need to have the house in order for any number of important visitors the Master is sure to be entertaining when he has his Seat. Yesterday's game went off without a hitch, so congratulations are in order there, although things got off to a shaky start with the equipment, did they, Alec? Alec. Scudder!”

 

“Mm. Yes, sir.”

 

“Although you did a grand job of the captain-ship.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“But! The first order of business regarding the parlour will be to shift everything out of it in order to reach the carpet, the furniture, and plants, and ornaments, and the – the such-like. _Yes_ that includes the piano, again.. Don't make that face! You've suffered enough though, Alec, perhaps: David, Peter – you can be in charge of moving it this time, it's really only something one should do _once_ in a year.”

 

“Little crawler!” Davey leans down and whispers in my ear. I cross my eyes at him and he expels a puff of laughter.

 

“Sally, you and Effy can start now by moving the more delicate trinkets from the shelves and mantel and windows – mind you wrap them in handkerchiefs or rags or some such so they don't break, and make a note of where they were displayed – the Mrs. Alderidge will help you with that and of course the Mistress herself. Off you go.”  


“Yes sir,” and the girls sweep away. I'm well aware of what Sally thinks about hauling stuff about while Alderidge and the Little Lady sit by and give helpful directions. For a housekeeper, Alderidge is as cosseted and idle as any of the toffs. Admirable really! The rest of us get the nod to leave as well, and Simcox reaches for the newspaper on his desk. We -

 

“Oh, Scudder, actually I was convening with Ayres and we found that yes, there are rats in the walls again – no-where too obvious yet, just between the servants' quarters and the back-landing – but of course they might move and so it would be prudent of us to tackle that problem before it gets out of hand.” I like how Simcox says 'us'. Moreover, I would like to point out gleeful that I won't _be_ here shortly and thus any long-term issues mean nary a fig to me, but then I remember that I'm not sure I even want to go anymore. Uncomfortable.

 

“Right you are sir.”

 

“Good. Off you go.”

 

“Where to sir? The furniture, or the rats?”

 

“... furniture! You stupid boy!”

 

I ask thee! Flaming riddles!

 

 

Trooping after Davey, Peter, and the others, I glance in the looking-glass that's over the bannisters leading back to Simcox's office. Ugh, I look dreadful – like the living dead. Feels that way too. I didn't sleep for waiting, especially when it became clear that I _wasn't_ waiting, just lying there in the quiet, dark boat-house, a-listening doleful to the swishing of the leaves on the roof and the waves of the lake lapping gentle, and the boats knocking softly on one another, and me thinking that this was the perfect place for two fellers to have a good, private time together, only there's only one feller here alone, like a right lemon, laid in waiting. What a waste of a night – as I say not even any sleep to show for it. So I got up really early, before dawn even, and emptied the baskets and re-set the fish-lines. Took ages, and I'd to wade right out the lake and went under a time or two, but at least it kept me occupied.

 

Probably not the best idea though – I managed to stave off the hangover for a while but soon as I had to start making my way up to the house for orders, hit me like an iron round the head, and the stomach. Can feel a lot of wind brewing. Better try and keep it till we leave the house, at least...

 

“Cor, Blimey, our-kid! Feeling the worse for wear after yesterday evenin', are we! Ha! Ha!” Davey grabs me into a head-lock. Our screaming-match over the glosh road forgotten. “Gerroff!!”

 

“Ha, ha, awww, diddums! Need your ma to pat your back, do yer?” Pete leaps over and thumps me in the back, winding me further, I swearing blue and bloody murder on him, and as he prepares to do so again, a-reeling his arm back like he did yesterday at the wickets, I ball my fists and Davey steps betwix us with a “Now, lads..” As if he didn't start the whole thing!

 

“Where did you slip off to yesterday in the pub? Did you go off to do a frig? There were a gang of lasses, and only two of us! Worn out we were a-dancing, you could have taken some of the slack, Alec!” Fucking wind-up merchant! Peter is saying this only to boast about the women, as if I'm supposed to be impressed or envious or something. Truthful, time was, I _would_ be, and join in joyful, but lately I – don't know. Maybe romantic endeavours should stay between the parties involved. Suffice, I won't be bragging about my most recent conquest any time soon, although my head's still in the clouds over how he loved me, eager, that night and I was wonderful and so were he – not for no-one's ears but our'n though.

 

“Aw, I were that plastered that I would have been sod all use to any girl, dancing or _otherwiiise_ ,” I sing on the last bit and wiggle my eyebrows for stressing. Davey cackles again and Peter shakes his head, then says, as he notices my prancing away - “Hey! Where are you off to. Parlour's this way – and we're going in the back way, naturally. We'll watch the girls packing away the smaller bits and bobs and jeer them – if the mistress isn't there.”

 

“Sorry lads, 'fraid I can't, there's the dogs, see – what with the rabbitin' and the glosh and the whole bang-shoot with the cricket, they hasn't been proper exercized in days.”

 

Davey: “And you're going to see to them now? Arter wot Simcox said on the furniture, and Ayres the rats?”

 

Pocketing, shrugging, grinning, I: “Aye. I'm making the executive decision.” Tickles our Davey!

 

Peter: “If only to get out of doing any heavy lifting. Jammy git!” He punches me in the arm for good measure and I salute them away. True and all about the dogs, it's not a cop-out: if they's locked up in the yard much longer they'll about mutinize, or refuse to eat, or start throwing their crap around. Maybe they'd unionize! Ha! Ha!

 

As they stroll away, I hear Davey and Peter talking about the likelihood of the upcoming summer and how they's getting a group together to go to Brighton once the fine weather comes in, as is tradition for the workers at Penge. Twists in my stomach – I've never been, I wasn't here last summer and I'd love to go to the sea-side. I suppose there'll be lots of sea and coast on the Argentine. Won't be the same though. Which I meantersay. I'll be way away – and everyone else still here in Old Blighty. Should feel superior – but mostly just feel sad, and as my Ma would say at cross purposes with mysel'. If it's even possible to cross them on one's own!

 

To be honest with you I'm past caring about the wrath of Simcox or Ayres, or Durham... I'm main concerned about Maurice. I heard Sally a-whispering to Mrs. Dee earlier that he were 'taken ill' yesterday evening, that he 'came over all queer' at the cricket match – the guests at Penge and indeed the Durhams themsel' tend to be right royal ripe for gossipin' about amongst the servants. Well, why not take them down a notch or two, just between ourselves? But: not about _him_. I don't like the idea of people laughing over him being ill, or his funny toffee-nosed ways, or his mysterious attachment to the Durhams. It's all I can do not to leap to his defence and box a few ears but that might seen as a bit unusual, when generally I've not the time of _day_ for his ilk. Night, though... And: ill, was that – because of us, what we done? Because of me? P'raps he's riddled with regrets. I just can't tell. Bugger it anyways!

 

  


 


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Mooning about in the copse at the bottom of the Long Garden behind the manor seems like the least productive way to spend the afternoon, as they's rats, furniture and what-have-you a-harkening on me to get up off me arse and back to actual work, but to be honest I'm past caring just at the moment. I were being true to the lads earlier, it's not a fib that the dogs need their exercising – it's more that the squire and Simcox would likely deem the happiness of the animals to be secondary to the opulence of the parlour-room floor! My back feels disinclined to shifting heavy bits about though, sleeping – or trying to – on that boat-house floor with a heavy heart and only a jacket for a pillow is no joke. Course I feel a bit of a fink leaving it to the others but I have a feeling they'll make it up to me somehow – leave some particularly unpleasant job for me to do, such as clearing out the lavvy, as is only fair!

Beagles are reet grateful though, that's nice to see. When I approached the gate to their yard they about raised the roof with the storm of barking and crawling all over each other and whining pitiable lest I just poke my head in and continue on my way!

Barking and grousing and shuffling and snuffling round the clearing like little pigs, they're happy as Larry now that they've gotten out of the yard and into the sunshine. Every so often one of them comes over and drops a twig at me, and I throw it away vaguely as I've no energy to spare, sorry fellas. Often when the dogs is released you won't see them for dust but with me they tend to stay close – a pat on the head here and a scratch behind the ear there and they'd do anything for you! A proper hunt would do them the world of good but I can't see that happening anytime soon, the squire busy out smarming around every nook and cranny of the constituency. Wonder what my old Ma would say if he come a-canvassing round our way? Fred, certainly, would send him on his way wi'a flea in his ear! Though it may not reflect well on me – what of it? I've already gotten my reference and pat on the back to be on my way. Perhaps there'll be time enough for a proper fox-hunt with – with Mr. Hall, and London, and whatever other Old Boys drop round – that would take some organizing but would be great to be back up on horseback again, even if I were only attending to me duties some laughs could be had as well. Not that I think he's too keen on shooting – Maurice, I mean. Evidence suggests this – his bad mood Thursday - but that could have been just the weather, or the lack of bunnies, or the comp'ny – not me of course, but that Archie bloke who'd talk the back legs off'n a donkey and still never get to the point. Some people!

A-sat on a stump, I cross my legs and chew on my nails careful. Terrible habit of course, Ma says, and she's not wrong, but at least I do keep them all level – the trick is to start on one side, say, thumb, and work the way over. I'm gnawing at my left middle finger just at the moment, I've a real prick of a stepmother's blessing on the right side and I'm trying to rip it off wiv me teeth without too much bloo – ooooowwww!!! “Fuck-it sideways!!”

“You there! What did you just say?!” BARK BARK! BARK! What the he – oh chuffin' Nora!! It's the old battleaxe herself, Old Lady Durham a bustling towards me with her pudding face and daughter-in-law floating along insipidly in her wake, their pet pooch lumbering after. Shut-up, dogs! Jesus! “Quiet – quiet down now -” no, I'm saying that to the dogs, not to herself. I leap off the stump and grab off my hat and stand to attention, hoping I didn't leave any blood on my lip as I'm sure they think I'm already half-human as it is.

“Ma'am,” I just say reet respectful, hoping that she doesn't actually want me to answer her question.

“And here I thought, from all that thunderous barking, that the dogs were actually being exercised, not merely milling about while their keeper is sat bone idle! If my son were here...” I bite my tongue inside in my mouth and focus on the mountains in the distance, anything other than this noise...

“And I say! It's really not on! Taking all the other dogs out for a walk and their frolics and not including Stalky! Beastly mean, but that's the way of servants these days, Anne, just thoughtless – comme d'habitude. No sense of the above and beyond or loyalty.” Hmph! I'm plenty loyal – and will show it – where it's due only, and it's main not due here! Old witch – kom dah be tood my hairy hole!

Stalky. Ill-named if ever a one was. He's about as far from a stalk as it's possible to get – he's that overfed up at the house – likely has his own embroidered stool at the table – that he looks more like a loaf of bread. Or a sausage on cocktail sticks, spindly little legs on him. See, the Lady – loose term – took a shine on him at one of the hunts, and shame on it too, he were one of the fastest, finest out of all the dogs! Off for an early bath – that's what he gets for standing out and being appealing. I look over at him. He looks back at me doleful. Good-bye old friend!

My fists is balling again; I concentrate on keeping them behind my back so as to resist pulling out a fag real ostentatious or preferring the old dear the old two-fingers. It's difficult – self-control is something of a struggle for me – Borenius has the measure of me there!

“Oh yes, mam, but perhaps he didnit realize?” Guess whose twittering that is? My land. And by the way, I am here, and not deaf, no, nor simple neither, but by all means carry on the way you do.. Simpering twit! Argh, she's looking straight at me, p'raps I rather being treated like a gate-post! “You didn't realize, did you, that Stalky would feel upset and uninvited? With the other dogs being taken for a treat? Oh, I mean it wasn't deliberate, goodness no!”

Um... “No, Miss – Mistress. Of course not.”

Wicked glint in her eye, Old Lady Durham: “Still it was a grave oversight.. Maybe you should apologize.”

“Sorry, Stalky,” I say, immediate, and shoot the old dear a creepy smile. Yeah, I'll show the dog more respect than I do you, what do you make of that, eh?

Fuming, but visibly composing, she makes another sour pudding face – pudding, I don't know, not a suitable symbol, it being sweet and delicious and necessary and she - ? Well...

The other dogs mill round, woofing, wagging, tumbling, snapping, scratching, while Stalky looks blearily at them, and at me, like as if he was a hundred years older than his natural two. How much – how much crawling up am I expected to do here? I can never tell. Conversation – if you can call it that – with your superiors never seems to come to a conclusion until they deem it so. I concentrate on how shocked Maurice was by his own coming -

“You! Aren't you listening? Stand to attention properly when a lady addresses you! Je n'en reviens pas!” Oh GOD you old bag! Strike me down where I stand, lord!! And the young wan just staring at me, dreamy, glassy, twisting the dog lead in her delicate little hands.

Alec: “Erm, sorry, Miss, Mistress, begging your pardon, but I had thought that seeing as how Stalky has joined the ranks of – er – that is, he's now an indoor dog, that it mayn't be – fitting – to run with the pack no more, bit boisterous you understand, what with the rough-housing and the dirt and the slobber and the fleas and what have you... Miss...”

Stunned. “Fleas? FLEAS?!” screeches the old hag about snapping her vocal chords and silencing the dogs immediate: they sense more consternation in the offing and so do I and my shoulders start to sink till I remember I'm supposed to be stood firm and upright so I make an effort to straighten.. “Where would they get fleas? From you?”

“Wot!” I protest much too quickly to be deferential, like, so to compensate I tip my cap which isn't on my head anymore but in my hand and fast-mouth: “That is, no, Mistress, but from being outside Miss, as is natural; the fleas only a mere possibility and not one at all once I've taken and groomed them all. One by one.” More silence. They seem suspicious I've that many words inside of me. Dogs get bored as we all three size each other up and shuffle round me; I'm a-waiting on being dismissed. I want to ask to be excused but I have to wait on her orders. Imagine. Orders from her. A bitch of a woman!

Eventually, lovely Little Nell chirrups, “Mother, it's nearly three o'clock, my goodness the time! We must tend to the afternoon tea things!” Aye, and I can hear clear as water in my mind's ear old Sally's voice, banging on: “Aye, Alec, they must tend to the afternoon, which roughly translates into 'overseeing' the rest of us and chivvying us along as we cook, and arrange, and balance trays and distribute tea-spoons and dodge around footstools and vases on rickety tables, and mop, and brush crumbs, and wait respectful in the alcove until we are called over to sweep away the cups and saucers soon as they's done with – oh yes lad can't you see how essential the mistress is to the whole sorry display? And while we're lining the wall, the same old dull chat while they pick at the savouries. But of course, it's custom..” 

I nod in agreement, (yes, to the voice in my head), but one thing resonates: it's nearly three. Still time enough to catch the third post, if I were to rush to it quickly – find some excuse and depart for the boat-house, my terrible lonely but homey haunt, and scribble down a letter to impress upon Mr. Hall that I am thinkin' of him and willin' him back and not codding around by any means or measure. Yes – I must be proactive. I've no intention of sitting back and doing nothing while he spirits he'self away to the City! No, he has to take responsibility for what we created between us too!

Freeze-smiling at the ladies who don't so much as nod in my direction as they turn and begin to drift back up the long, luscious lawn (and not getting a wriggle on in the slightest, despite their notions about the afternoon tea being an absolute disaster no-show without their management..! Oh the leisured classes. If you ask me they're the ones who don't seem like real people. How cannae live thus.) Off they go with poor old Stalks grunting to keep up, and I pop my previous finger back in my mouth after donning my cap, and take off like the clappers back to the dog-shed, they all circling round me barking joyfully, and about tripping me up.

Sir, you'll not get away on me, sir. I quickly see to the dogs' grooming – I weren't being arty with the truth there, I do mind them right good – and give myself a quick revitalizing splash in the face at the pump beside the garden veranda, before racing off like a hare in heat to the boat-house for to gather my composure and get to composing. I'm no great shakes at writing – in fact, I tremble at the thought of having to get this - plea? Demand? Appeal? Endearment? - more right than anything I've ever attempted. Maybe – maybe get my breath back firstly!


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

 

Can't see no two ways about it – have to bring him back here, he should do as he's instructed – what he needs is _more_ instructions, so as to make things more friendly and understanding, loving between us. Jesus Christ, I _can't_ have another night like last night without him, now that I know what it's like to be with him. I've barely been living before or since. Just not on. And I can't cope. I need him. It's no good trying to get rid of your own aloneness. So I'm going to recruit his help – and get rid of his, in the process.

 

Creaking, I step through the door and inhale the dry, warmish air of the boat house what's been baking in the sun all day through the windows – though it did get cold last winter, and it does have a fair few leaks here and there, and there have been uninvited guests a time or two – foxes I wouldn't mind, only they chewed up me coat pocket for to get at me baccy and that gave me the right hump for the rest of the day and no fags to ease the annoyance! Birds is alright too only they will insist on shitting on the winders – when they could go just about anywhere else on earth. Rats I won't tolerate .. in fact if I'm to be entertaining a gentleman here shortly I should take a quick shufti around to make sure the place is in top form. Wisht' I had somewhere right nice to bring him, but, I cannae bring him home – are thee cracked in the head! And it were a near enough thing, likely, a-sneaking into his bedroom that time – besides I don't want it to be spoiled by having to be quiet, or trying to ignore the oppressive, swanky furniture and fixin's that Lady Durham most probably picked out and has her servants polish twice a day. No. We need our own place, a room of our own – no one else's. Arguable that the boat-house belongs to the Durham dynasty, but seeing as I've made it homey, and it's me who only ever goes there, it'll be mine – ours – just for one night, Oh Lord God, please!

 

Want to express all this to him – what I'm offering to him on a _plate –_ and I'd much rather do it in person where you can let a smouldering look or a secret smile or a slight lean towards or a squeeze of an arm do so much of the talking. Were he here, I'd have him – that's the long and the short of it. Only he's not here, so I'm having to be strategic.

 

Rummaging in a wooden box that seems to be full of dried leaves more than owt else, but I extract a rather weather-battled old journal I use for jotting down the comings and goings of the animals, the bits of advice I do overhear or ask outright regarding the hope for the shooting season, and one time I happened to track down this old cove in a pub on the edge of the county, over by the sea, and he was known to have the 'gift' of for-seeing the weather and so I quizzed him and he said it were to be a wet Summer and a mild Winter. I know, I remember for I jotted it down, see?

 

1911

 

SMR wet

WNTR mild & clemnet

 

Bodes well for the growin'! Though I won't be here by the time they's harvesting. I suppose I'll pass it along to Davey or someone. Right now though, I dig round at the box and extract some more bits I've – come accross, that is to say, collect on me travels – an ink bottle, nearly empty and an old ink pen with the nib a bit skew-whiff, but workable. Not having anything as swank as a writing-desk, nor indeed, as basic as a table, I sit my arse down on the dry, creaky floorboards and scoot forward to lean my notebook on the hull of an upside down boat what takes up most of the left-side of the room. It'll get the paper dirty but what have you? Won't be no work of art no matter what way you cut it.

 

Right. How shall I begin? When were the last time I writ summat longer than the amount of feed that's needed, or how many boxes cartridges to order, or a sweet promise a-whispered in my ear for a winner down the nags or the dogs, or some delivery dockets for me Dad at the shop, or indeed, some little lassie's address or at any rate her proposed location at a certain time for to meet her there. Ahem. Hm. Probably not since school when we was made practice our alphabet by copying out bleddy Bible passages or when we was acting up, do out lines! 'I must not mis-behave all the bloody time and stop playing silly beggers' – or words to that effect. Still, beats six of the best! I got a fair few whippins in my time too and though my lack of education hasn't hurt me none, I have difficulty reading and so it would seem, writing when it comes to more'n names and numbers. Now I mull on it, whenever there were an English lesson, us lads were rounded up generally and set to work out on the potatoer fields a-digging and planting and gatherin'. Messin' round with words weren't deemd important to the likes of us – signs on it! Where do I begin?

 

Oh sir. Dear Maurice. How familiar can I be – must impress upon you that I know you well, now I know your darkest secret and I'll not let on, no, never but now you've given it to me you must keep on giving or it's curtains for me. How it feels, now.

 

Jumble of pictures – of him – in me mind's eye; smoking right sexy and arrogant a-leaning on a wall or a doorway, sarky and arch with his mates, the Landed, lost and forlorn wandering round the gardens, and frightened, eager and uninhibited – verily hibited – clutching and gasping and softly rubbing in that there bed. Strong and confident and sewn up, at the cricket where we met each other bodily once again. I know well – I'm no scholar but I can read a person easily enough – that he needs to be told. He needs to be told how much he wants me and 'what next' – I'll give you what for next, sir, if only you'd let me!

 

Scribbling away, I try to make it as clear and straightforward as possible where he is to come meet me – the boat-house. I'm afeared that me may come back when I'm out larking about with the dogs or tending to the horses or traipsing around the woods after some other toff with a gun – other? no.. that is to say, not like him.. He isn't – well he is – you are – I must tell him how I'm a-feeling on him and how things got muddled, somehow, in the middle of the cricket match when Durham flounced down to take his place at the top of the pile. To appeal to Maurice's kind and tender-hearted nature, I make sure to remind him that I'm leaving these shores soon and will be taking my loving affection wi'me, not to mention my body and all I can do with it, well I better mention that but in a way more romantic-like, because it's true and I can't wait to grab him and hold him and whisper in his ear, in both ears, and kiss his face and have him kiss me and tell me, Alec, oh lad, I were confused and ashamed after that night but I missed you so, I had to come back, I got your letter and it convinced me to return and remain by your side forever! Hang America! We'll make our own life together. Kiss me, dear boy!!

 

Eee! Now wouldn't that be champion!

 

Like the prize-fighter dancing around waiting on his go with his foe in the ring, I jump up and stretch my limbs and pop me neck – it were an awkward angle to be sitting on – and swing the door open and leave the boat-house in me wake – for now. I shan't return alone again, or at any rate I won't be on me tod for long. Twigs snapping and branches swinging back I race through those woods like hell and high water together were after me.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

 

Cor, this has been a day and a half. Not half!

 

Kind of on a come-down now: work will do that to you, whip the wind from your sails. Don't even know if I _want_ to describe what I got up to for the rest of the afternoon. Which was loaf about the place, mooning like a sick cow and getting the head et off my by Ayres and Simcox each in turn for dropping buckets of water and slipping on mud and watching moronically (Simcox's words!) as the rabbits cavort across the vegetable gardens, as useless as tits on a bull (Ayres' description). Too listless and lethargic to even blow their little heads orf. But I did manage to scoop a fair few into some potato sacks and do for 'em out the back of the stables; I dunnot do it in full view lest any of the landed ladies or the serving girls should encounter me with me hands all bloody and furry and the ground filth with bones, bullets and various insides. And the _shit,_ my word what comes outer them! Like so many of my jobs around here I should do it starkers – me clothes get that filthied.

 

Had a bit of a desperate deluge in the vain interest of respectability though as I'm now down the orchard in, as they say, mixed company – it's a bit of an occasion, and if old Simcox is to be believed and he _isn't_ , a treat for us! What's on is this: Chapman the head groundskeeper has twigged that the summer fruits are all coming into fruition, well of course they are, the branches are bloody groaning with them! Anyroad, the early apples and the pears and the berries and the such like are all a-falling to the ground and attracting every bird, insect, fly, wasp, squirrel and kitchen sink in the vicinity, so he say, and what's more a body rushing through the paths here is liable to fall and break his neck on the sludge and what's more than _that_ , the mess looks unbecoming to any esteemed visitors that Durham might be – well, entertaining is too strong a word. Putting up, mebbe.

 

There's only one guest of esteem I'm interested in and I've staked my claim now good and proper.

 

So, all of us in Penge servitude – inside, outside, boy, girl, or otherwise - have gotten our orders to shirk our normal duties and grab the remaining good fruit while the getting is good – 'post haste.' I'm mighty hoping my bit of post is a-hastening!! Wondering how many strings Chapman pulled _there_ to get his orchard cleared up for him – and I've notice his conspicuous absence, even if no-one else has, but what difference does it make? It makes none, I'm not about to go complaining.

 

Actual, it may have something to do with the missus – I'm told that Mrs. Dee has a clatter of jars warming on the stove and a skite of impatience with it, in order to make some jam and preserves, and chutney, and pickles, and tarts and crumbles and pastries and danties and it's been a long time since tea... But anyway, Lady Durham has designs on an elegant, authentic tea-party or some rot and inviting all the bigwigs from the village and a plethora of yawn-inducing old boy-friends of Durham. Complete with home-grown produce to show what a down-to-earth pair of country rough-housers they is, no doubt. This from a woman who's probably never even shined her own apple on her lapel, but gets a maid to do it!

 

Still.. waiting till tonight, till the boat-house is a-going to be a real trial, especially as the sun is still beating down and showing no signs of sinking behind the mountains in the west. Rather arbitrary, as me aul Ma would say, but lately I've taken to about dreaming, or sleep-walking, or sleep-working, more like, throughout the day, in a hazy daze, whereas when it starts to get dark.. only then my body awakens and it'd be perfect – it _will_ be perfect – when he's here to receive me. Closing my eyes, I try to remember how many inches he is taller than me – surely not more that two or three? He only seems giant because he strides about so and I tend to slouch about the place, always ready to dive under a bush or a low wall so as to sneak up upon an enemy wi'me gun – them rabbits especial. P'raps I'll make a soldier! Ah if it were only the time!

 

I bet I could wrap him up in me arms, and me in he's, rest my chin on his tweedy old shoulder and inhale, and slide my foot – in me socks only, for some reason in this dream – up his leg slowly and with my toes pull his bloomers from his clean, sturdy riding boot, meantime his lips will touch me on the – sort of beside the – _ear,_ and he'll breathe down my cheek and he hadn't shaved in a day – no, two days, and then -

 

“Alec! My word, how you blush! Is it over _me_ , isn't it! He he he!!” Even as she squeaks this out, Milly is aware how undue charmless her laugh is, and tries to temper it at the end with a cough. The overall effect is less than appealing, but sure, we're all in this together and so: “Now now, Milly Molly Mandy, don't you be wondering what's going on in _my_ head or it'll be straight off to Borenious with you to confess! Certainly not something I could talk of in mixed company!” I lean my head to one side as she sends me her bitten lip; “...Now if we was _alone_ , mind...”

 

“Oh my! Oh, hear him talk!” Milly twirls around and nudges Kitty who has a look of perfect scandal on her pale face. I'm sure she thinks I'm a right reg'lar wolf when it comes to terrorizing the women – or she'll have heard as much. This place is a right rumour mill, a-churning out gossip faster than me old pa can grind you up some giblets! It can be troublesome. Maurice, for example. I know well I pleased him in the four poster that night – pleased?? Why, he were in heaven and no mistake! It's so but.. it's nay enough. What if he heard something right derogatory about me, from bloody Borenious himself or sodding Simcox or even dashed Durham – but why would they's conversation ever get 'round to me, unless there's a real dearth of topics up on the inside of the house?

 

'Swhy I were backpedalling in my letter I wrote.. about the girls and all. Well, I'm correct, ain't I, it's natural but it don't mean nothing! Surely he can see that! Surely he'll get to craving what only I can give him..

 

But is there only I?

 

 **Flump** as I myself am nudged heavily to the side, and I dropping the apples I had in the crook of my arm. “Alec, you _are_ a caution! And I bet you're taking the nicest apples and sticking them in your pocket for later, thy bold lad thee!” Milly attempts to tickle my waist but I dance out of reach again, and threaten to pull back a branch and thwack her with it. (I never would _really_. Well...) I know that this kind of play-acting, trying though it be, is Milly's way of coping with the grind at Penge and well who am I? We're all in the same boat – though I'll be on a real different one soon enough.

 

All the same I look round somewhat anxious for Sally or Davey, who must be in the orchard but are no-where to be seen, before: “No, why wait? I'm having the best of them here.” And I crunch into the nearest apple for effect; actually it's sour but I don't show it.

 

“Perhaps we shouldn't.. you know have at the fruit before they've been brought up to the kitchen, won't they be needed for the preserving?” Kitty's wibbly little voice is weak in timbre and sentiment. I crunch more greedily into my apple and effect some mock-apologies, and Milly, bless her, laughs riotous.

 

“Kitty, how can you have worked in the kitchen as you do and not clock the way things work, the little perks you is very h-en _titled_ to? Why, when I were assisting Mrs. Dee, I used to pilfer all sorts and no-one any the wiser! Scones from the breakfast, the crispiest rashers from the skillet, the middle of the cheese! Used to shove them in me apron or up a sleeve or inside in me bloomers, I weren't particular!”

 

“Oh, Milly, no!”

 

“Aye, sure as I stand here! It's _expected_ of you Kit, in the kitchen, to help thysel – why d'you think the wages is so reet awful?”

 

I'm not sure about Milly's reasoning – certainly – we're suspected of stealing on the regular, and accused thus, but not exactly pointedly _presupposed_ to and our pay docked accordingly! As it happens I detest the way the house-rulers treat us to the squinting windows – especially Durham's old battle-axe mother - follow us about if we're ever near the house so as to keep an eye on the silverware. Yet – here we are. I bite the bitter apple and sidestep away from Kitty and Milly's squealing match lest I be expected to referee.

 

Edging towards some hazelnut trees, I make an attempt at being productive as I pluck down the green casings and try to squeeze them open. Damn! Wish I'd my pen-knife wi'me. Bitten down nails ain't worth a shag. Voices.. Oh, it's Effy, one of the parlour maids talking on Kenny, that smart-arse moustachioed git from the granary. And him actually doing work! Well, affecting to. Shoo! All sorts here today.

 

“... true! Oh! And _don't_ let on, but you remember how I said about how right peculiar it was when Durham's old college chum, _you_ know, the tall one from the city who's always about but don't say much – when he took ill from the cricket match? Well, so _I_ hear, it weren't his bed he were taking to - not for sickness anyway! It's what he has a woman – a wife-in-waiting – back in the City! Or so he say to the Mistress!”

 

“Nay, gal!”

 

“It's true! Polly told me, she happened to be scraping mud off the floorboards days ago when he strode by talking – well, a-stammering like - to the Little Lady, and he mentioned it. She seemed right surprised.”

 

“Aye, as well she should be! If there's any bed _he's_ a-runnin' to, it's old Clive's.”

 

“Hoo! But you can't say that – maybe there's nowt in it _really_! But, er – between yourself and myself and the lamp-post, I _did_ hear that they was once very cozy and that's the reason he keeps coming round.. on his own.. to think the Mistress would have it!”

 

“She's got bog cotton for brains, that one, it won't even have occurred to her, mark 'em.”

 

“You're not wrong there, Ken..”

 

Wh-wha-what's this? What goes on? Is this – what's this? A wife? Clive?! Are they – talking about Maurice? What do – so – he's – don't tell me that he's a – _special_ guest of the squire's! That was just me being brattish and foolish at the cricket match when I were looking daggers at them chattering over the wickets. I didn't think there was anything actually _in_ it! But – yes, I – take it all round, it makes sense. What Simcox were sayin' about Durham and his being about as far from a lady-killer as it's possible to get, so much so that he had to be _instructed_ by the old bugger on the ins and outs of the female response – then there's Mrs. Durham who's as innocent and precious as the dawn snow in winter – and of course, Maurice. Maurice. Well. If you was any way inclined, that way, and it's sure an incline, alright – of course you'd notice his dark but sparkling brown eyes, his delicate cheekbones, the sweep of his hair, his lopsided smile, his long, strong body and encaptivating voice... _Could_ there be some woman in the wings, the way Durham has his own arm decoration for the sake of respectability? I mean, he's – Mr. Hall like – a damn good catch, the sort of established bachelor bloke that all the over-bred landed ladies around would consider as the rightful property of one or other of their rotten daughters. That's to say – he'd make an ideal husband. Damn and blast it and bugger it to hell!

 

Did I get it so wrong?! Was I merely lucky that I didn't happen across the _two_ of them curled up in the bed together when I come up the ladder wi'me heart beating so excited and loving and full of bounty? Played for a bloody fool I was! Just the squire's proxy? Doing what he were to afeard to do, was it? Or maybe he'd had his fun already??  
  


Seething, I peg several apples in succession into the basket four foot away with the kind of ire (and, if I'm truthing, accuracy) I should have displayed at the cricket game. Instead of faffing around, having a laugh with him and believing.. did I get it wrong when I were so sure I had a read on him, that he were a lonely lost soul like, wanting but waiting, aching but unwilling to make the first step; though maybe he's done so already, and made many's a step, aye, right up to Durham's college quarters. Stewing I am! Good! Anger! This is -

 

 

OoOoohh.. All those apples I've swallyed barely chewed... Ohh need to get to a loo, _fast,_ or at least an out-of-the-way bush... they's girls present! I take off on a sprint, stealthy, slipping crazily on some slimy rotten fruit as I goes. Bastard!!


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

 

Oh-ho-ho... _Now_ he's gone and done it. Mr. Maurice, you've done for yourself this time, sure as eggs is eggs, and now you're _for_ it, now you'll catch it. Heaving with the infuriation I am, the anger and _unfairness_ , it's ten times as strong and affecting and animating than the sadness and the loneliness! Take me for a fool will you, treat me like so much dog shit on your shoe, aye? When you know how you feel on me. And I on you. Yet this. Empty arms once again, quiet, creaky dusty boat-house and the birds twittering away in the tree-branches like they've a right, like all were well in the world.

 

Another night alone – another plea ignored; one bloody idiot with a sore back dismissed and ignored and thrown aside like a used hankie, and one frowner crinkling his nose, no doubt brushing toast-crumbs off his lap with his napkin, crumpling a letter and a-striding away from him duty. Sorry Maurice, it just won't wash old fellow! Believe you me, you'll believe in me yet – what I'll have, what I'll _make_ come to pass.

 

 _God!!_ HOW could I ever have thought I loved that man? He's just like all the rest of that smarmy, silky ilk – arrogant, self-centred, superior, cold, mean, controlled, blackguardly bastard! Maurice! Having done bleary-eyed, back-aching, and heart-broken sentry at the boat-house – sat staring at the windows with me legs crossed and my nails bitten down to the quick – _and nothing._

 

I pace the boat-house, I go outside in the tentative, cold-aired dawn and peer up to the manor, trying to remember what time the earliest train gets in – though maybe he'd get a carriage all the way? Nay – too far. Take too long. I lean over the bank, clutching a tree and strain my eyes up the river for good measure – I'm mad as a hatter, I know this, but I were – I am – well, desperate, there's no point trying to sugar-coat that or hide it, now is there? It's plain as day – though this one is misty yet – I've gone positively doo-lally lately and I can't even trust meself: look at me, haven't slept in me own bed in days – nights, rather – and for no good reason neither! Eventually, running my fingers through my fringe locks and pulling them agitated, defeated, I return to the boat-house floor, sluice myself middling clean with the jug and wash bowl, put my crumpled gear back on so as to be up at the manor in time for work.

 

...only to run nearly slap-bang into Borenius; my fault of course, I should really stop racing everywhere like the wind; us on the same path I manage to veer crazily and skid to a halt to the side, heel-dust puffing, hoping he'll pass without muster but:

 

“Dear me, lad, dear ME! And I _had_ thought last Thursday would have had an impact on you!”

 

Hang-jawed, I: “Wh-WHAT?!”

 

“Our little intimacy in the kitchen!” A-drawing himself up, he puffs out his chest in full lecture-giving mode and, seeing as how this is now somehow a formal conversation with a higher-up, I, wheezing still, remove my hat.

 

Gesturing me to keep walking, he puts his other hand behind his back and makes as if to accompany me. Fan-bloody-tastic. He takes the path-way and I'm forced to walk in the dewy grass – naturally. Continuing, only building up steam, he is yet: “You know... the advice I was giving you in the hopes of you maintaining – or shall we say, _formulating -_ your sense of Christian values when you are in a foreign land, away from the more traditional Church structures and cultural influence..”

 

Oh _Christ_ , this again, all I can do though is nod feebly, but this half-heartedness – quarter, _eighth-_ heartedness _–_ doesn't go by unnoticed. Have to hand it to the cove, he's good at his job, a-sniffing out sinners.

 

“Now really! You look like you haven't slept in days, and judging from those bags under your eyes you have been partaking... Haven't been home, have you? Your poor mother wouldn't have let you leave the house like that surely... I shan't ask _what_ you have been up to. Now look: I am not so out of touch that I'm unaware how portraying oneself as a – a – 'lady-killer' would be considered to be very impressive and meritable among the junior set, but wearing one's crumpled attire and tired disposition as a badge of honour.. It's crass, lad, for you I hope for better.”

 

No more do I. Land, if only I _were_ leading the life of wine, women and song for which he seems to have painted me the poster-boy! I could be truthful but the boat-house is my business. Our secret, even if one of us is being stubborn as an ass about admitting it.

 

“... now of course you're still a young fellow but by gum you're no child any-more! Too old for this tomfoolery! A young man like yourself, from a decent background, soon to be of – well – adequate means...” and on and on he drones. I cannae escape because I'm walking the dogs again today – yesterday gave them a taste for it and I can hear them barking their demands again! - and it looks like I'll have distinguished company in doing so, _again_. But then;

 

“... understandable. People have their – er – peccadilloes, though of course a modicum of control and demureness is not uncalled-for, even in men. But you _could_ conduct yourself with more discretion. It's not doing your reputation or those of the girls' any good, oh dear me no, and it does not go unnoticed, I'll have you know. Among your – contemporaries _and_ those of your employer's: why, even Mr. Durham's guests who were staying here – one or other of them took notice of your questionable carry-on and seemed to infer a doubt as to the quality of the staff! Thinks you need drilling a bit -” and he attempts to do so, with his eyes. I'm too bowled over that my name came up in esteemed company, and that – and that _he_ , may have mentioned me? Could he have done? Mr. Hall? And whyfor?

 

Hang about – the reverend's banging on about my _reputation_ , right? So they've all been having a right chin-wag about my so-called sexual shenanigans in their ornate, full-furnitured, thickly-wallpapered parlour, have they? And Maurice completely getting the wrong end of the stick – on purpose, I shouldn't wonder. Stubborn bastard!

 

“... the confessional box. Really, it isn't on, my boy, it just isn't dignified! Lends little to the atmosphere at Penge, truth be told, and you must understand, or if you can't, _try_ to, that the success of a politician hinges crucially upon reputation and respectability and reassurance. Three R's. Ho-ho..”

 

Wait a blooming minute, though – is _that_ the problem? The – girls? Milly and – oh, surely not! Which I meantersay – does my reputation _succeed_ me?! Alright, way back when a thousand years ago when I first clapped eyes on Mr. Hall and he first spotted me, when it all kicked off between us, I was somewhat indisposed wiv the gals, and yeh, I can see how that could be taken up the wrong way, that is to say, me a-getting me jollies, but – that wor only a larkabout, merely a game, no-where near a – a carousel, even, as me dad would say. Honest and true, Mr. Hall, if only you knowed it, it didn't mean nothing! Gordon Bennet, if he's gone and got the hump on account of this...

 

Borenius seems to contemplate slapping my shoulder real genial like, but stops himself from stooping to this show of easy familiarity with a subjugate such as I and instead nods and waves me on my way. What if Maurice had had a similar wobble when I crawled into his bed, and instead, like the reverend, decided on the side of respectability and restraint and whatever were the third 'R' again?

 

Resuming my nail-chewing, I attend to my left ring finger. It's a blighter, dirty and broken but I'll nibble it to rights. Bit big-headed of me, really, to go presuming on him being – jealous, or something, of me spreading meself around with the maids – with all and sundry, as likely has been haw-hawed up in the house. Happen he'd be disapproving – that's more likely especially given his flouncy demeanour. No, Alec, don't _judge_ so. Or judge, but on the softer, more human side I saw, he showed me, up in that dark brown reddish-orange room. Jesus, I hope I – haven't shot meself in the foot, ruined all before I've even managed to get this – haimes of a thing off the ground! But how can he blame me.. judge me for going and having a bit of fun with girls, or anyone? Easy for him, him up above in his castle and keep, and me rolling around in the hay. Where's the connexion between us? What exactly? Why am I having to be doing all the work? And what more can I _do_?

 

Alone at last, I release the dogs and suck viciously on a fag, every now and then a-kicking the dominating beagles away from the trough so the dafter ones can come and get some food. Prithee, lads, be _have_ , will yez! Land. I must have lit my seventh cigarette at half past two; must be on number fourteen now.

 

I hang onto my foul temper very careful and deliberate until lunch, purposefully not engaging with anyone at all so as to not give them the sharp edge of my tongue (Ayres, Simcox), or who might actually try and succeed in cheering me up (Sal, or Davey). I'd rather stay furious and slighted and injured all the live long day, keeps me just on the cliff-edge of absolute despair. So I wolf down lunch again, again' a tree behind the stables, all on me tod, remembering that I hadn't thought on Ma in days much less seen her, even though I'm to be sailing away from her forever in a very short while, and I notice a hole in my coat sleeve, which gets gloomily bigger as I poke at it to inspect it. Bugger! What am I to do on the Argentine, when this happens? When I snag me sleeve on a jungle thorn or a nail protruding from an ancient, dunno, sacrificial alter or summat? Mebbe the reverend is right; maybe I should snap myself up a woman for to look after me, I've made a right cock-up of wending me own way so far! A woman, or...

 

 

Swallowing the last bite of pickled onion, I launch myself up off the grass, brush the crumbs from me britches, another plan all concocted in my head by the time I peek round the edge of the stables up towards the house... not a sinner. Good.

 

Creeping towards the house, slowly, movey movey, just like I done a few nights ago, ginger-like, aware as a hare of my surroundings but I can't see no signs of life, least... human life. It's different this time, it's daylight and the house is bound to be full to bursting and bustlier but my heart is throbbing just like it were when I heard that voice, when I took a hold of the rungs of that ladder, when I started to climb.. I been climbing ever since! Still my mind is my mind of that night, single, narrow and focussed on my goal.

 

Aahhh... ah, from a-peeking round the top half door what's open I can ascertain – that's to say, I can see - that there's no-one in the kitchen – that's reconnaissance work like in a war, me dad says. From prior knowlege, I know that the bottom half door squeaks something rotten, like a stepped-on mouse so I _whoops-a-daisy_ hop over it, _ow, ah, ow,_ landing wrongfully on my ankle. Shit! I have to do everything arse-ways, as Fred would say. Anyroad, that's called employing _stealth_ – another useful trait in your arsenal as a soldier.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Sugar and shit. I'm a-ways out of my comfort-zone, here, as they say, a creeping through the hallways of the house, pressed sideways against the puffy, manky wallpaper and unable, surely, to look more suspect if'n I tried. In-doors anywheres is like a prison to me – not just this mouldy museum of a place. When I were a lad, Ma says, I only ever come inside for to bolt down me victuals and to collapse into sleep, after a long days' adventuring out in the woods and down along the stream to the next village over, and a-following the hunts or the harvests or the market-days, near all the county over. Tearing her hair out she was for the lack of me! For I wouldn't sit still. Truth be told there were many's a day when I kipped out in the woods or fields or river banks, with the fellas or alone, just fishing and dropping off under the stars, ee, there's nowt like it, s'long as you're bundled up right warm and comfy. Happen another person in your blanket would – and has – put paid to the cold I tell thee! Deeply breathing, if I could I'd spent forever outside in the natural, just like when I were in short pants, a-climbing trees, shooting and fishing and playing footie and chasing the lasses about. Outside, fresh air – wind – the sea you could almost smell - 

Yet here I am in the musty, furniture-polished interior of the house, with a vague warm wet smell that might as well be money. And here I forage onwards, once more onto the breach, or such like. 

Lucky enough I was to pass through the kitchen unnoticed, I creep down the awful picture-cluttered hall – uninvited. Heart hammering, I press my hand to it to try and dull it, or calm it, but I can feel it in me throat, pumping in me ears even – which makes it difficult to strain my eardrums to the creak of a stair or the swish of a skirt or some plus-fours. Looking around nervous, I try and strain my brain to remember where the various rooms are here in the house. Well, what I'm a-looking on would be much more likely to be upstairs – I look somebit fearful up the ornate front staircase, for I've reached the front hall and I promptly bump into a footstool and about upset a vase on its doily from a rickety wooden miniature table with a cushion, and a drawer, and carvings on the legs, flaming – there, it's righted. Thank the Lord. I've gorn and upset some dust too, that were setting on the table quite happy and undisturbed, so I drop down to my hunkers and pull up the corner of a rug and brush the dust under with me hand... There. None the wiser. I – oh, shitballs! Oh, I've only gone and tracked in a load of mud from outside, me being so careful to be stealthy coming in the kitchen I clean forgot to wipe me boots. Whirling and sweeping, I add the mud to the under-rug dust; realizing I don't have time to dawdle and am still – a bit – hopping mad, I consider finding a bedroom - I could take the stairs three at a time, be there in a jiffy. Truthfully though and in the interest of safety and secrecy I am loathe to go upstairs; downstairs would at least mean I had a window to escape out of should the whole endeavour go pear-shaped. Right – here we go..


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

 

 

Drawing room looks like a bomb hit it – that's the lads – and the lasses – having moved everything each way from Sunday in order to pull up that wretched carpet. Glad am I that I made myself scarce _that_ day. And that I shall miss all of this upheaval from now on: I'll be a-heaving myself off the starboard side of the _Normannia_! I creep into the room soft as a church-mouse, and ease myself past the fair few bits and pieces that remain; lamps and chests-of-drawers and little standalone presses with glass fronts and ceramic thimbles inside, boxes of lace from the windows thrown carelessly tither (Sally's doing, I hope tentative!), armchairs on their sides with their antimacassers hanging crooked – my land, hope the old lady don't come marching in here sudden, she'd come a right cropper, likely drop down dead from the disorder! Hmm, actually, mebbe I should call her...!

 

No, I'm here purposeful, and I don't want to risk getting caught and reprimanded; set doing something that will take all day and night or sent away on an arbitrary errand or indeed sent off altogether for an early bath from me job for sneakering – don't want to do nothing that could keep me from freely monitoring the boat-house. Need to keep me nose clean – lord knows, I'll have enough sinning to be getting on with when Mr. Hall finally stops acting up and comes back here, to me, like he knows he should – he owes me.

 

I look at the piano, right where we left it – no-one's been persuaded to tackle it further I see! Under my feet I see the damp is still seeping up – ugh! This will be a big job. Though it it probably won't be - Simcox will have it covered up instead of properly fixed, for fear of breaking it to the master how mightily high the cost will run. In that case rather him than me! Squire is an ineffectual twit, through and through, yes, and in no way would he – _intimidate,_ in a proper man-on-man situation, but I'd say he has the power and the sneaky bastard-ness to make things right difficult for you if he takes a set against you. Like Simcox himself really, or anyone else I could think of..?

 

 

 

Drifting through the room slowly, though I'm well aware that I should be treating this as a swift operation – in, scribble, out, Bob's your uncle – I've come over all dreamy and sluggish. Well, I have been, off and on, for a week now, ever since the orchard. Ever since I seen him I've been half dippy; ever since he left I've been wandering about the place only partly there and partly not, like a ghost a-haunting where he were, such as this armchair where he was make-believe reading... I smile despite.

 

Glancing up, I see that there's been some progress: the ceiling looks newly-plastered, and a good job made of it, too, probably Davey's workmanship – he made the little wall all round his folks' house at home, he showed it to me and in fact I had a go on it – sitting that is, not marking my territory! I note that the ladder is gone too, and the mere memory of it leaning there, like an open invitation, the parting of the Red Sea, doing away with all of the bloody tripwires and barriers and roadblocks between us... But here I am romanticizing. Ladder's probably propped up down the pigeon loft above the Eastern Barn, with Ayres slipping and sliding away on the shite on the roof for to poke some of the little blighters into waking up and getting on their bloody way with their tags. We've the laziest pigeons in England. Either that or they're on strike! Sighing, but softly, I lower my eyes to what brung me in here, into the territory where no-man should be, that is, no man of the land anyroad, like me, and that's the writing-desk sat where ever it did to the left of the east-facing bay window. A fine yoke it is too, if you're moved by that kind of thing, which I amn't, general, but today I approach it slowly and pull back the dark, ornately carved chair in front of it. Sure lookit – even the chair has fancy flowery embroidering on its seat and what was it made for only plonking your bum down into! Only the best for some peoples' arses eh!

 

Ahh... mind you it is right comfortable. Another memory appears in my head sudden, of how comfy and warm and soft and squashy Maurice's bed was, or at least the bed he was staying in, not really his, although the warmth was. Bastard!! Fucking deserter! How a person could _lie_ , with their body – that's ten times worse than what Borenius does be bleating on about – at least there's honour and honesty in a bit no-strings hanky panky! This was so much more and Maurice knows it. I've been far too nice, that's always been my trouble. Nice and naive and a-trampled all over. To hell with that! No, I won't be as forgiving and generous as I were in my last letter – cruelly ignored!

 

 

Determined, I grab the handles at the side of the chair and hop myself forward a few inches to sit properly at the desk. I'm confronted with the shiny but battered-looking roller-top, which I grip at the bottom edge, praying after all this risk and sneaking and secrecy that it's not locked. Ah - c'mon you – _there_ we go, it's a bit sticky and squeaky but it raises up softly, it's rollers making a gentle rattling noise that send my nervous eyes in the direction of the door what I left ajar, again, and to my right also where's the big side window, the sun streaming in. In fact, I'd be visible from this window, should someone peer – mebbe I should close the curtain...? No, that'd draw undue attention to the window and the room and the sad plonker caught with his hand in the writing-desk – no, best just get this done quickly and be on me way. I've just to get my point across with no time for bells and whistles – not that he deserves sweetening, anyway.

 

Biting my thumbnail, I survey what's before me – both the papers scattered and what I've to do. Now I see why these desks have the covers on 'em – it's a right royal mess, with loose pages and notebooks and torn envelopes and crumpled receipts and invitations and thank-yous and cards from business and restaurants and Public Offices (and invoices, I opened one for a looky-loo, quite weighty, I wouldn't be a _Durham_ for all the tea in China, I tell thee, for many's the reason but here's one undeniable!), broken pen-nibs, inky blotting paper, books, pamphlets, jellies!, and stuff that's obviously just been tidied away under here out of the way when dusting, like thimbles and teaspoons and dried flower-petals and cuff-links – Mrs. Dee's doing I shouldn't wonder, she's always moaning that housekeeping ain't her remit, being a cook and artistic in that venture and all, so she goes out of her way to prove her lack of cleaning abilities. Either that or she's really that untidy and sluttish!

 

Enough beating around the bush, Alec, let's get the ball rolling here. Right. Oh God, this takes me right back to school only there's no slate. I pick up the ink-bottle and remove the lid, checking that it hasn't gone all dry – it hasn't – before choosing, right tentative, a proper nibbed but not particularly new pen and snatch up a piece of paper from one of the little alcoves, also mercifully unlocked. Dipping, shaking, hovering -

 

Maurice. You -

 

Furrowing my brows and sticking my tongue between my teeth firm, I begin to scribble frantic-like, slapping down my thoughts just as they occur to me with no especial structure or, in honesty, coherence, muttering my sentences as I write them, getting ink on the desk and my shirt sleeves as I splash back to the bottle for more, the only noise my scraping pen and laboured breathing as I up-end the past couple of days of frustration and pain and longing and injury onto the creamy paper.

 

Firstly I must address and dash this nonsense about these vicious rumours of my cadding about after every young lassie in sight! Mr. Hall, it's no-where _near_ that many, and anyway it's only a bit of fun for us! Do you deny us that, even from when before you and I even knowed each other?! Remember I'm going – far far away, but don't think that gets you off'n the hook: just makes me more determined than ever to impress upon you – press myself upon you – make you see, clear, what's between us and feel it too, feel, yes – oh – I _will_ have what's owed me!

 

Remembering those rumours I heard myself... Maurice, you must yourself realize what it's like to be drawn down, down into someone and to do with them – maybe not in maids' quarters, or down my docks, or in the back room of the village pub, or out in the dry dusty hay under the moon and stars – yes, ornate and fancy university halls would be more your secret loving sanctuary – yours and Durham's. Take that as a threat or a plea for understanding – which ever quickens you to me.

 

If even you want to – if even you regard me as a fellow person, though that night you thought on me the finest man in England – glowing you was, terrified that I'd leave, clinging, loving, relaxing at last. I am not your inferior – I were, but it's been evened now and you cannot continue to make me feel this way – lower than ever I felt, worse than getting twenty lashes at school, or me ears boxed for robbing links from my father's shop, or getting wages docked and the face ate off me from Ayres when the foxes did for seventy chickens that were saved up for a banquet... How much worse your silence pains me.

 

I'll be all alone in the Argentine.

 

You'll be all alone here – after. But I'm not thinking that far. I came to you before, climbed right into your bed, and you wanted it, more than anything, more than air or water, and you want it still and I'm coming to London so have me, when I come to you.... Over.... All... You'll do this, receive me, or I'll, or _I'll...._

 

Panting, frantic, I come to the end of the page and am forced to come to an abrupt stop, justifying again about defying his wishes when I was organizing the cricketing form – I'm just tearing my hair out and examining over and over every little occurrence between us, for to find something that I done that would turn him so cold, so sudden? It weren't nothing, that Thursday night, it was the entire world coming up to its glorious peak!

 

Right – I sign off, making double and tripe and times-four sure that he can see that I _have_ power, that he knows that I know. Skimming the letter – it's a mess of ink and doubtless terrible spelling and punchters, but it satisfies. I wouldn't trade book learning for this kind of straight-up honesty.

 

 

Mmm.... right, better make this quick but real careful like, like, want to make sure I've not embarrassed myself in any way – further than laying out my desperation so unmistakable! It's fairly incriminating too – when you consider what we done, and what we're doing, and what we'll do together in the boat-house, loving like, ain't exactly what's regarded as proper carry-on for no gentleman, nor no commoner neither – but it can't be helped. It's underway and Maurice can't escape what he's done – why just this moment in time he may be perusing the streets of London or more likely the ballrooms and tea-houses and garden parties for a prospective wife! Of course he could have 'is pick of women – or men too, although I fear it's towards a Mrs he's fled... What would _become_ of him, a-hitching himself to some poor, doe-eyed, fluttery young one who might be as respectable and tolerable as they come but who won't know the first thing about tending to him like I do. Aye, the first flush of marriage might well bring a powerful warmth and sense of pride and safety at having done the right thing by Society, and your parents and friends and the neighbours forever a-squinting through the windows. Soon, though, there'd come a sorrow, a gentle sorrow, nothing terrific and thunderous, but slow and seeping, realizing one day as you read the newspaper over the fry that life ain't as good as it once was, and what's more you can pin down exactly when that 'once' was. At least – that's how I feel on it. And I'll tell him all this in London, and I'll save him from it too – don't you fret your eyelids on _that_ score, sir.

 

Reading my own handwriting is right cringeful but as usual, I have at least gotten straight to the point – points – all of them. I want him to feel the sense of oppressive urgency and injustice that has been choking me since cricket. Reaching out and grasping air, I've thrown every worry and doubt and accusation I can think of at him, even those wilde most probably baseless threats, and defending myself against that wretched reverend's gossiping.

 

No-where have I pleaded.

 

Footsteps – shit! God – no time to change it now! It's rather long but I had to attack him from all sides – not with defence but with sacred rites of pride. God's sake, he should know the devastation of having one's manhood discounted, ignored, and stripped naked vulnerable!

 

Trembling, I blot the pages, rendering them messier, fold them haphazard and stuff them into a cream envelope. My fingerprints are dirty evident, but I can't be careful at this stage – could be ambushed at any moment! It _could_ just be Sal, and she'd just give me the old raised eyebrow with her hand on her hip and her feather duster a-waving disapproving at me – really she'd want in on the sport, although I've certainly had more fun-filled afternoons than this sweat-fest! Still and all I wouldn't send her packing – though maybe not invite her to sit on my knee, like I would've only last week. Likewise though, I could be just as easily set upon by Old Lady Durham! Or Simcox. He'd fall somewhere inbetween. Old iron hand in a velvet glove, Sims, as me dad might say. Never forget whose side he'll take in a scuffle – the powers that be and pay us wages! Justice be damned! It does occur that people tend to be naturally more inclined to ally with the privileged classes – especially those classes themselves. It's an unhappy thought.

 

So as to make sure Maurice has absolutely _no_ excuse as to having received my demands – and to stop me going postal over wondering if the Royal Mail is doing it's damned duty at _all_ or just dumping bags of letters into the river – I print the name and addy out right careful, and almost in straight lines. I purposefully dispense with the respectful formalities this time – he's not my superior in _this_ matter and the sooner he learns it the better. Maurice, you will not see me as your snivelling supplicant, nor some blushing back-woods lover-boy who goes about dishing out the pleasings like apple crumble after dinner. Mr. Hall you'll do as you're told.

 

Fuck! Voices drifting down the corridor outside the door and getting – oh help, getting – _louder_ and clearer as someone gets nearer, and my heart leaps into my mouth as I leap up and swivel round desperately for a hiding place, grabbing my hat in agitation and more or less just jigging about on the spot. The wardrobes are moved – I could dive behind the settee and drape the sheet covering it over me? Or squeeze down under this writing desk? Better than – Shitters! Frozen with horror:

 

“... and around about the _same_ time, he thought it somehow prudent to introduce Veronica!”

 

“Oh I _say_!”

 

“You do indeed, and I! By Jove, Miss Elizabeth was _less_ than impressed, I declare. It's a rotten thing for us to titter over but Mr. London is oh so amusing...”

 

Fading from the doorway, the voices twitter on distantly like the dawn chorus coming to a close. My heart permits movement again and my body overcompensates wildly, me wanting to get the ever-loving shit out of this room, house, over the hills and far away as possible. I slap an array of stamps higgledy-piggledy onto the front of the envelope, practically swallowing some in my haste to paste the correct amount on. I think I've used a couple first-classes, well better to err on the side of plenty! Still all fingers and thumbs and nerves of excitement, I cram the whole hot mess into my jersey pocket, crumpling it against my baccy tin. I consider leaving through the window, then go ahead and do so. Latch catches a little, and the frames look splintery but I carefully manoeuvre me legs out, somewhat awkwardly, with only a few threads getting pulled out of my chords. Some evidence left, should anyone care to look! Swinging my legs off the sill, I feel funny for a moment – like that feeling when you have felt something strongly before. Decidedly not looking above at the second floor, the ivy trailing up, the worn bricks, the curtains no doubt fluttering in the breeze out the window, the unlit candle in the window; I scarper. Running, racing till I reach the far side of the house, I panting press myself against the wall and dig my hand under my waistcoat to clutch closer to my heaving heart. Feel like I've just done about ten rounds in that bedroom all over again.

 

It's maybe odd but it does feel so natural and commonplace; I do love danger – I'll join any game, or climb a tree, or swim a stream, when it's likely I'll snap a limb or drown; but catch me hanging round level ground for very long, or in the house, or playing bloody quoits or bowls...! Though of course football's the only _real_ game, I quite got a bang out of the cricket t'other day, and not just because of one particular team-mate. Cricket _can_ be dangerous; Geoffrey Wims got a crack of the ball in his knackers. He'd said when we was togging out that only 'a big girls' blouse' would wear a cricket box – who's laughing now, Wimsy?! Ha ha! Oh the sight of him clutching his-self a-rolling and whimpering on the green... mind you, I'd be laughing the other side of my face if it were me – imagine your tackle being out of commission for God-knows how long – days or weeks even! Missed opportunities and likely not even able to visit the jacks comfortable!

 

Renewed, and even though I'm after undertaking a big risk, putting all into words on paper and calling his bluff crazily, feeling confident – I race to the post-box at the pier and pop the letter in, after giving it a squeeze against my chest for luck. Now I'm absolutely sure I'll go to London, march up to Maurice's fancy town-house, get shown in, obligingly let the service take my coat and hat, they sending for him. I'll stand in the hall respectful but with my shoulders straight and my chin high and defiant, and watch him hurry across the landing and half-way down the stairs before looking down finally at his guest – freeze in shock and amazement – and adoration. Unhurridly, I'll just meet his gaze, raise a brow, and slowly turn my body round to face him with a right knowing, sideways smile, his servant by now having melted away or something. We're alone.

 

So enamoured am I with this certain prediction that I catch my foot on a briar knitted into the undergrowth and am sent sprawling on my hands and knees.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

 

 

After dinner, which I bolted again as I haven't been enjoying eating much lately, I've a fag with Davey and Sally hangs round a bit too, rocking on her boots with her fingers knitted behind her back. They natter away and I suddenly realize, after smoking my first cig in about five minutes without joining the conversation, that I'm the piggy; Davey's said to me private that he's hand enough of good time girls and is on the look-out for Mrs. Right(!). I tell thee! Think _I've_ got the tongues a-wagging wholesale around here? If Davey ever settles down I'll eat my head. Aye, with me hat on it! He lives for the excitement; no better one to fight with the he-dogs and wink at the she-dogs God ever blew breath into!

 

“You wouldn't mind fetching an apple for us and giving it a bit of a polish on yer apron, would yer Sal?” Davey _nearly_ leers, I suppose it could be interpreted as a cheeky grin. And where's he going to put this apple, after having scrumped four already today and downed them? Perhaps I'm better off not wondering...!

 

“You know perfectly well where the apples is, Davey – better than most, _I'd_ say. You'd want to be careful, the master wants to leave a few hanging on the boughs remember, he said – for the aesthetics.”

 

“For the – _he's_ an aesthetic, no better example I ever laid eyes on! Gordon Bennett, and I suppose he thinks the wasps and birds will have as much respect for the ornamental value of them bloody apples as he and his London Boys' Club – hey, Alec?”

 

“Hmmm? Mmm.. oh, aye...”

 

“There's enthusiasm for you. Now Sal, I only ask for that very reason you say – I been hanging round the orchard a bit too frequent to be natural, lately, and it noted, but if _you_ were to be seen there, just happening by, like...”

 

“... like pilfering apples? Do me a _favour_ , Davey!”

 

“Or we could go together, like I was accompanying you on some, er – erand...”

 

Sal: ***** blush *****

 

Bemused, I'm musing over the two. Davey's people are employed distantly by ship-merchants. Is that hight and noble enou for thee, Sally? Not that I begrudge.. I excuse myself and leave the doves to it, citing that the traps need checking, and consider with a shudder that there'll be no Mrs. Scudder. Now there's something to put the frighteners up you!! If I don't get married, what will I do with myself for years on end? No point pretending that I'm exactly career-driven, despite Freddy's helping-hands he's giving me along with a generous side dollop of unwarranted lectures and advice and downright naggage. But how can one dedicate one's life to _work_? Where's the passion, the ruddy blood pumping?

 

 

Having ran into Chapman on my winding, bewildering way to the woods, more as the bee flies than the crow, I consequently spend the sweltering, cloudless afternoon gathering horse manure from the stables, paddock and trails into the wheelbarrow and spreading it on the rose bushes that line the edge of the entire front lawn – left, right, front and back. And on backs, mine feels like it's been ran over with a cartwheel – a barrage of cartwheels. Such repetitive and mindless work, you'd think, whole my body were main occupied, my brain would be free to wander and wonder and come up with ideas and plans and wonderful imaginings as I and the spade shovel and shake and spread and rake; but you'd be suprized actually, especially of you's not one used to labour. There's a right strong un-bloody-barable connexion between the mind and the body; they are in direct sympathy with each other. As I swung the shovel and heaved the barrow and traipsed behind the cantering ladies and staggered to my knees and blew on my blisters and mopped up my teaming brow, I could only concentrate wholesale on getting my arms and legs and feet and sore arse and upset stomach from one end of the estate to the other, with no room for idle contemplation or even rumination on what's for tea or what kind of weather might be approaching in the next hour or so. No. Your mind becomes single focussed on survival and dogged continuation; the only relief was when there were no more shite to shovel.

 

Why keep going? Why did I do exactly as directed. Why do I? A suggestion, an order – and I jump to attention: for it's my job and without a situation I'm in a rum pickle with Fred and the old pair at home. It's that simple; I don't have a choice.

 

Maurice does. Maybe... hmm. He's getting my notes alright, just like I reckoned I got his signals loud and clear as he wandered round Penge like a will o' the wisp, vague and standoffish and lonely and yet wanting and inviting. And now? He elects to forget all about it, forget all about me – well, it's easily managed, isn't it, when I appear to him only as so many pieces of paper and ink! My letter today was more of a warning than owt else: Be Prepared for me this time, sir, as I did in fact catch you on the hop, in bed even, previous.

 

Perhaps I shouldn't have given him fore-warning; now he has the opportunity to skip the country well in time for Tuesday!!

 


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

 

 

Eventually managing to drag my assorted body parts in enough harmony to reach the far wooded edge of the copse, I check the traps and am beleaguered, right truthful, to brush aside the leafy coverings and discover that they's only a few magpies inside. I'd been hoping on pigeons or something more substantial but I suppose I should be grateful there's anything at all given that it's not exactly above board, this particular caper. Only Davey knows on it and he'll tap his nose if asked, no spillage. Silent as the grave, is our Davey. Blessed opposite for me – the empty vessel maketh the most noise, as me dad says!

 

Wending my way down to the traps, I hum and grunt out a tune and even whistle a little. Back in Osmington, there's a gang – Katherine, Edward Taylor, Lucy Price, Big Albie – the Hole in the Hedge Gang, if you please and know them well - what goes round collecting songs and diversions and the latest larks from the cities – they's been over Brighton, and oh, down London, Plymouth, Southhampton, all sorts of far-flung places. I were supposed to go with them last time, March, but I'd work and the weather were so good I couldn't get away. They invited me to go next time, this August, but... well...

 

Anyroad – music. They goes, as I say, around to the theatres and music-halls and that and takes great pains to rememberize the newest fashionable songs a-playing there, so that they can come back and perform them back here in the sticks in the living-rooms and lounges and pubs and town-halls and sometimes out in the parks – quite the event, I tell thee, when one or more of them sweeps in grandly from the train or carriage – having saved for months for the ticket – and all eyes on them when they take to the “stage” - often an upturned bucket or milk crate! Even going so far as to scrawl the lyrics down they does: Katherine showed me her notebook, well it were hard to miss, being tucked into her garter and all, and I had to move it aside, it being in me way, so I had to ask on it, and that's when she explained it to me and said come along. O what I wouldn't do to _really_ be able to consider it. Fred'd blow his stack - “Alec's only gone and joined thems' travelling players – no better than gypsies, them!” And a spit on the ground. Seems like an attractive option though these days what with one thing and another! To be just a wayfaring wanderer... Between yourself meself and the lamp-post, I had me things half-packed to do it! To throw in my lot with the players and Katherine who's got ten years on me and was well willing to show what she'd been up to in those years... Only me mam come back in a terrible temper, giving out that these louts had been a-setting on the wall right across from the chapel and indulging in their revelry right through-out the sermon! That rather put paid to my plans: I couldn't break my mother's heart thusly. Although now I think on it, maybe I just didn't consider that particular path-way _worth_ breaking it... That and Albie mentioned off-hand once, casual-like, as if it were nothing, that the lot of them tended to get collared by the Old Bill and thrown in the nick on quite the regular. “It's main fun, young Alec! You meet all sorts of characters, learn bags of new songs and stories when you're banged up. You just have to look on the bright side!” Yes, well, the bright side of a grimy five foot nothing cell would be reet hard to find, thanks all the same!

 

So: that's the Hedge, dodged a bullet there, you might say though I still remember them fond. And with not a little relief that they's moved their wagon onto Leicester – quite a hoof! One of their songs I'm a-singing now, and right pleased I am that I can recall the words _and_ the tune - or rather the tune from the words! Citifying a bit, I warble:

 

“..If you'll come down to visit, to my country house, each day it's my habit, to pot a rabbit, And then we can go for grouse!” Here I mime taking aim with me gun and – BANG! BANG! Wizzer!!

 

I adjust my voice like Katherine did, making it more like my own only worse. “Ah, you'd _best_ come down to my place, I haven't been grousing much, but my rabbits are dears, two lovely lop eeeaaarrs... You can shoot them both in the hutch!” _Strictly_ for the toffs of course – catch me a-gunning down a rabbit and it within in a hutch! Lads'd never let me hear the end of it for wasting cartridges. Snap their necks once you've them captured, it's easier all round and if you'll believe me, makes a cleaner job of it. Well, I say clean – still gets a bit messy, but sure that's Mother Nature for you!

 

Kicking at the dandelion clocks that grows up through the fushias and the honeysuckle, I contemplate the traps, a-cursing that there's nowt but the few magpies, hopping about and looking at me right doleful. Truth be, I should shoot them now, kinder, and I _will_ , but not just yet, no, now I cross my arms, lean back on a tree and kick my leg up on a stump and stew, and brood and strain my brain. Will he be reading that letter yet? Second post, dash-it – I should be sending these letters first thing but in the last few mornings it's been enough of an effort to show up for orders in time, because I've had no sleep with the heartsickness and indignation at his absolute _front_ , him snubbing me – again and _again_. But not again. I shall soon have him in a snare – captured. Coaxing didn't work – well after cricket it didn't, he's taken flight. So it's time for me to follow him into his natural habitat and go for broke, sod it I'll be gone forever in a few days' time! Didn't I assure him that we'd find another opportunity? He seemed keen at the time but that might have been because he was all shagged-out and what's more new to the feeling.

 

With – FUCK!! -Fuckery! Fuck, it's him! No, not Maurice. That bloody blackguarding ferret wot made a run for it the other day, that's who! That's him a-snuffling round the hedge-row over yonder – yes – I'm sure of it! I recognize him well – and besides, it's not like there's a thriving system of wild all-natural ferrets around these parts; you'd be more likely to turn up a weasel or an otter even given the proximity of the river and the lake. Right pests they is too – but none so much as this fella wot caused me to lose the rag at that hunting party the other day – in front of Mr. Hall and his mate, not that they were all that perturbed or intimidated by me but I was the one to catch it in the neck with Ayres of course! Oh he really got on my wick that day, that ferret! Show me up in front of the tittering, snickering city folk, will you? Make me look like a fool? I'll show you – yes, enjoy the last of your freedom! Probably smelling out some rabbits from that warren nearby: doing what you ought'er, at long last but it's too late.

 

Despite this torrent of emotion and vitriol, I've remained totally frozen on my stump since the instant I clapped eyes on he; fag half-way to my mouth and quickly burning into ash but never mind that; apart from the fag I'm the very fox having sighted and targeted and planned for his prey. Or the hawk, or the owl – though fox, yes, that I fancy more as I slowly, slowly crouch downward, squeezing my cig and tossing it soundless into the moss. I ... _hope_ Iextinguished it fully, lest the whole bloody estate go up! Fancy that. Smoke billowing from the beloved house – _oh_ indeed – and the roar of flames as the roof falls in. But it's too bleddy damp for that! Blowing out the last of my smoke, I ease my arse up off the stump. I do _not_ blunder in like the beagles would, roaring and panicking and flailing and scaring. Where has that gotten me? Where's it getting me? Leaning over carefully, keeping my eyes trained on him like he the centre of a target, I slide my hand up my gun and grasp the bolt firmly in my fingers, powerful strong familiar feeling.

 

Nice and easy does the tri – ah, ready, aim -

 

TRICK!! BANG! BANG!!! Fuck and he's away – straight for the cage – away you go, boy, fast as you please, faster, in you go, boy, you know you're done for -

 

SLAM – He's in! He's there! I've got him! He's back! “Whaaaaaoooo!! _Get_ iiiiin!!! High cockelorum and whooping whizzer all at once!”

 

Tossing my hat around I yell for a while, the fucking _bang_ of it, him having gotten the better of me before and now he's looking at me right cynical from the bars of the cage, his whiskers all a-twitch. 


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

 

 

Though it's a still, clear, bird-twittering balmy evening, the wind whips my dashed-bleddy curls back from my forehead, though I had taken great pains to tuck them into my cap, as I whizz past the out-copse, then the first few houses of the village, small and getting bigger and more freshly-painted, spokes flying and ticking madly and my green corduroy cuffs flapping – I tuck them into my socks religious but they always and ever escape as I pedal so furiously up the Hill – past the single lamp-post, with its hanging basket rocking purple lobelias and pink petunias gently, I gain the greengrocers, the farriers, the hardware and the drapers, and turn on the Garden Lane corner sharply, skidding on the tracked dirt – “MIND yourself, Alec!” - Sorry Mr. Worthing! - continue on, sailing past with my built-up momentum, I still my legs and sweep gloriously past The Captain's Table, and The Rod and Reel, McGarrigles' and Penwrights; as usual I'm able, despite the obstacles of (infrequent) motor-cars or carriages or gangs of childers on the road, to slide up to our place free-wheel – I duck and dodge round them like a professional in the circus. Perhaps....?!

 

I'm not supposed to fly through the village at this speed – that is I'm not allowed to. Though what's Dad going to do on it now at this stage? Tan my hide? I'm too old for that by a long ways. Though you could just as easily attest that I'm similarly too old to be flying 'round on the bike wi'me legs stuck out too but that's neither here.

 

Slowing down, I swing my leg off and walk the bike gently towards our place, lest I knock flying one of our more closer neighbours. Wouldn't be the first time, and well, looks like the last time will be the last! Words: Scudders Quality Victuals loom over my head, I needn't even look at them to confirm, they're so familiar, as much so as me own face, but all the same I flick my eyes upwards and roam over the cracked front with the sign over the door, and a picture of a gambolling sheep on it, designed to whet people's appetite for their Sunday roast I expect! Peering over the blue and white striped curtain that covers the bottom half of the dusty front window panes, the inside of the butchers looks dark, counter cleaned and hooks gleaming empty in the background. Delivery on the morrow – just as well I've managed to get home this evening.

 

Attached to the butchers, on its left wall, as I walk further, is our place – home. It's not a bad old place really; no prizes, but there's the garden – it's not in front of the house right posh but at the side, further along on the house's left, and it fairly enclosed and cozy with me ma's painstakingly planted and re-planted escelonia hedge lining the perimeter and within in it, the poplars and cherry blossom happen blooming.

 

Tipping my hat to someone or other, I stop the bike and rest it against the light yellow wall of our house, under the front room window, and I put my hands in my pockets and look over the winders, roof, moss, my eyes sliding back over to the right, Dad's shop with the joints hung dark red at the side of the window and the sawdust blowing out the door – what little there is of it that isn't stained with blood and juices and run-off. Usually my job to change it – who'll do it now? Well, I will, but what I mean – how'll it get done, when I'm gone? Dad's the proprietor, and anyways, does be too shagged at the end of the day to be stooping over pushing and shovelling and brushing as the shadows lengthen. And me ma – oh, no, please! Some standards of presentable must be kept! Like a common labouring woman, there working out in the open and the public eye, wearing an apron and her sleeves rolled up?! We're a respectable family; she's the wife of a tradesman for God's sake. Perhaps they'll take on a boy. The thought makes my jaw cringe with jealously and irrational, misplaced anger at Mr and Mrs Scudder. What about ME!! Has everyone on earth up and forgotten my existence? I'm a ghost. I tell thee – and it's not a welcome thought, ghosts and the like putting the right frighteners up me..

 

I have a natural weakness towards that kind of spookiness truth to be told – betwix you and me, now _don't_ go telling Davey, nor Steve, nor Milly and her cousin, aunts, uncles and neighbours – nor Freddie, even, though he'd know from when we were bairns although he most probably – and right reasonably – likely presumes I've grown out of it what with growing into a man! But I hasn't yet I'm still waiting! I remember clearly – must've been two, three years ago? Anyways, to my shame it wasn't that long ago, and I was leafing through _Country Life_ what Mam does get delivered in the post for to keep up to date with the state of the fancy houses about, to see if any of them she's familiar with has gone to rack and ruin or indeed to the bank. I were reading, painstakingly, a bit about the upcoming shooting season and the likelihood of a good crop of grouse, and pigeons, and what really interested me – deer. Haven't had much of a go at deer yet so reading about it was the next best thing – and I were making a note of all the advice for to copy down in my ledger, what I kept in my room at the time; the boat-house, nor indeed, Penge, not having yet impinged itself so principally into my life.

 

Anyroad up - so here's me in the lounge at home, puffin' out a fag, and a-setting on the worn red and yellow sofa with its tattered crocheted throw and antimacassars, with me feet propped up on a wooden packing-crate that Fred were storing something or other in – bits for his original emigrating, now it dawns on me, that were about the same time. There was I with the magazine – a rarity, to find me indoors a-poring over some literature! - I never really engaged with none of the books wedged on the book-case, nor up on the mantle or propping up the bottom of two corners of the battered mirrored chest-of-drawers, and occasionally I use a book for a door-stop upstairs in my room when I don't wish to be interrupted. There's no lock on the door, and in fact the handle's had its day although I suppose that doesn't matter now, with my upcoming departure. The book is called Ivanhoe and I've never opened it but kicked it around the room plenty, sometimes I've left it on my shirt-collars for to flatten them without the use of starch. Mum saw this and creased up, calling me a right numpty but at least an imaginative one.

 

But I digress – yes, I do, and always and ever, as you must have accepted by now and I do beg your pardon! I'm finished reading the bit about the game that's jumping, and flicking through the magazine quickly before I toss it back on the coffee table I see a story, I forget what it was called but the first few words I read dragged me in and I kep' reading it, int it funny how a writer can do that, hook you like a fish on a worm and you have to keep going! Mark of a good one, I'd say, but in this instance I weren't thankful for the experience!

 

Man in the ... trees? Man among the leaves? Something like that – at any rate the title at the top of the page appealed to me, likely because it had something to do with being outdoors frolicing about the place in nature and if you hadn't already twigged it, I am a romantic type. Half of the words I didn't have the foggiest notion what they meant – some weren't even in English, I'm certain of it! It was a story of a – panic? There was some kind of skirmish at the end of it – yes, that's it, there were this feller that wandered about the woods and fields and mountains and that, a-playing on his flute and not doing much else, which I had to say would suit me right down to the ground, I'd be right chuffed to be in his position, not a care in the world only entertaining oneself and the people around, only I don't have a musical bone in my body, don't know no instruments and Dad says that when I sing I sound like a dying cow. He weren't smiling when he said it neither! So – there's this bloke, and he has him a right dandy time, and – oh! Yes, he has a dog too, what listens to the music, and only people who are right interested and – and – tuned in can hear him play his tunes, or are bothered to listen anyroad.

 

So – this dog. The feller loved this mutt more than anything, fed him his only food as I recall, forsook all others for his little pal, and it were his undoing! For didn't the dog go and get his paw caught in a railway-track, stuck fast and he howling at a train approaching, and didn't this flute player leap to his aid and freed the dog, being hit by the train and blasted into smithereens in the process! It were described right gruesomely and I remember my stomach threatening to churn my tea of cabbage and bacon right back upwards from whence it came. The biggest piece of the fellow they found were his hand. Rotten. As if that weren't enough to spoil my evening, the writer – that is, the speaker, that is, the bloke what was telling the story – or typing it – or – well, he tried to re-home the dog, and it refused to acquiesce to any of these welcoming new owners, and instead went to the forest to wander about right mournful and listless and deliberately starve itself to death. In fact the closing image of the whole wretched wrenching story were that of the dog's skeleton a-lying there dead and pathetic in the woods, likely covered in moss and grass and creepy-crawlies of every description, oooh it gives me the right collywobbles. Never mind the fact that I've never met a dog that would refuse a meal, or indeed a bite out of your arm if more conventional grub is lacking. I closed that periodical feeling right queer and unfamiliar in myself, and re-lighting my fag for to restore some normal-ness, some Alec to myself, I jammed the ruddy _Country Life_ back into the pile of them spilling over the left ledge of the mantel. On second mulling I pulled it out again and shoved it under the corner of the carpet. Out of sight...

 

Anyway it put me right off ghost-stories, so naturally I've read heaps since then and had many a sleepless night and an early-morning capless visit to the chapel – looking for what, I don't know, but there's little comfort there that can't be found easier and better in the warmth of a coupled bed. Particularly if the other half of the couple is someone right sound and caring and warm, which girls tend to be, and the odd fellow. Very odd.

 

Now though... and me alone, and mulling this over, the idea, the image of that dog, being as free and happy with his master, and then losing him, and a-pining himself thin and sickly, and then.. alone, outside in the gloom of the twilight day.. wasting away into nothing from a lack of loving, from a love that's gone.

 

P'raps I better eat something. Thank God it's tea-time and I'm home.

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

 

Heading over the springy grass towards the back door, I hear the chapel-bell pealing sudden, well not sudden, but gradual, relaxing, gonging away over the clatter of horses hooves going by and distant voices and the rustle of the pear tree beside me, and I pause, as I have been doing habitually lately – no lie, I've been either frozen, transfixed on the spot, barely moving restless, or else racing round the place like a wind-up toy. Too high or too low with no in-between, God save me, it can't go on like this!

 

From over the way: music.

 

“The da-ay Thou ga-ay-vest Lo-ord is ended,

The darkness fa-alls at Thy behest,

To Thee-ee our morning hymns ascended,

Thy praise shall sa-han-nctify-hi our rest...”

 

Close my eyes, sway. Sniffle, almost. Granted, I think I made it clear enou wi'me sneering – between us, of course – of Borenius and my mocking of the idea of communion and well, me general carry-on – Maurice climaxing – that I'm not all that gone on religion, and sacraments, and sermons and all the accompanying palaver. But. How and ever. Listening to the music now, and thinking back over all the odd days or evenings I found myself forced to go to church – most usually Christmastime – I have to admit there is a sleepy comfort to be found in the idea of giving oneself up to an unequivocal authority; of collapsing, as it were, on the alter and giving up your freedom so that someone will tell you what to do, and do right. I were musing on this earlier, when I were concluding that the way for me now to do right, save myself and my family with it, and Maurice, and establish myself a-new, and to believe mightily, hope joyfully, love Divinely – and the rest, would be to smarten up, shine my shoes, hitch my britches and get myself married. To a woman, specific. But not a specific woman – just a game one, like me. It's painful, how could I explain to the reverend that he don't have me so wrong? I have no objection to devoting my life to one precious person forever. Why did I have to fall in love with a man, in which case? An unattainable man – I couldn't have tied myself up in tighter knots.

 

“We tha-ank thee tha-a-at Thy chu-urch unsleeping,

While earth rolls onwards into light..”

 

Unsleeping? I can relate. Call me a church then, though there's nowt thankful about it! I direct my steps to the back door, scattering a few hens; I don't bother wiping my boots because I tug them off on the threshold and leave then lined neatly beside the empty milk bottles. Lamps are on already in the passage even though it's only evenin' and only May! Ma hasn't great eyes, nowadays, is the reason although she doesn't miss a trick as I constantly give her plenty tricks to mark! Though I hope I can be cagier than usual tonight, don't want her twigging I'm mooning over summat that I could never put into words to her. I peg up my coat and make straight for the stove, hung all with drying clothes and socks, and warm my hands, nodding smiling but tight-lipped at my greetings.

 


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

 

***** Cracle snap * of the fire, gentle hiss of the steam pouring out of the kettle spout; the green chequered rag a-wrapped round its handle so's me mam don't burn her hand when she brings it over to re-fill the teapot. There's no such carefulness and consideration shown to the maids up at Penge I'll tell you for nothing! Scalded they do get pouring hot water from kettle to pot to tea-cup, as it seems unbecoming, according to the Harridan-in-Residence and her kiddies, to see a maid with a cloth, probably filthy, in their hand. Someone should invent a kind of a puffy quilted glove for to touch hot plates and pots – or for to deliver a right deserved punch to their priggish employer! O and a millionaire it would make of yer, Alec!

 

Aaah... something about being back home brings the appetite rushing right back and randier than ever. Had rashers and eggs and sausages and pudding and soda bread straight from the cast-iron pot hung on the stove – heavenly, why am I ever so interested in bedroom activities when I could just devote my life to food! If only me mam's cooking of course.. nothing else comes near.. Fresh made apple tart too is still baking and that'll be had with hot, sweet, strong tea. And it being a Monday, only, here were I expecting the usual fare of yesterday's bread-ends and dripping!

 

It's because Fred's home. Must kill the fatted calf, don't you know, and serve it up on the best non-chipped enamel for his lordship. As if it weren't him what chipped the every-day serving things, banging and clattering them and bashing them round the sink when it were his turn to do the pots, temper it gave him. All behind him now of course, the picture of respectability – well, as respectable as one can get from our neck of the woods and that means – having means. It were always ahead of him; Ma and Dad knew this and as such they never made _him_ scrape up the bloody sawdust nor twist the chickens nor mince up the entrails. Not that I blame them – labouring thus was more suited to me; he was always off poring through books or discussing things down the pub, when he weren't earnestly putting in his hours and more down at the saw-mill – made manager in no time, ironed clothes to work! Quite the man being made, he were – are – am.

 

Even now. Clock him! He's sat straight across from me at the square table with its tablecloth patterned with primroses – Ma's an optimistic sort; the mayflower will display all summer and probably right up till it gets replaced with the ratty old holly and ivy one come the back end. As always he ever done, Fred is extending himself – vocally, to the room at large, and – hello, this is familiar – he's taking up all of the _flaming_ room under the table with his big long legs, having them stretched all the way over till his feet are planted underneath my bloody chair! He always did this, before school every morning, and back then I'd sort it sharpish, I'd kick him and he'd ignore me and I'd sink my heel into his shin and he'd smack my hand and I'd _push_ his leg with mine and he'd twist my arm and I'd pull his hair, us snarling and sniping and swearing and knocking over the milk-jug and the tea-caddy – and Ma coming in and whacking my head wiv a slipper, or a tea-cloth or whatever were handy, moaning to the Lord for deliverance from us, that she never had such trouble with Trevor nor Nancy nor Tessie nor John-thon, nor Evelyn. True enough, me and Fred was always the ones at loggerheads – ach, nothing in it malicious of course not! He's me brother although he does take me for a wayward wastrel layabout, and I take he for a stuffed-shirt git. I mean, dash it all. Look at him! You can't help but listen, he's talking up a storm while Ma and Pa delight.

 

Hair combed and slicked so recently and preciously, you can see the lines the comb left, for crying out loud. His shirtsleeves, yes, rolled up like mine but his are re-buttoned above the elbows neatly while mine, lacking buttons nor thread nor, God-forbid, cuff-links (!), keep flapping ingloriously into the egg yolk. Damn! Oh that I could learn some gentility before Wednesday... a whole book's worth, I'd need, a whole _life_ 's worth! I'd need me own personal toff for a while in private, to pick his brains and have him explain the different ways to dress for certain meals, and how to bark at the help in that particular demeaning and demanding tone, and how to somehow always have clean fingers. I'd present a lost cause I'm afraid. Mr. Hall were willing – willing? Eager, _desperate_ to take me as I am, that night up in that brown room. But that was at night time, in the spirit of a dream. He seems to have shook me off – or he's in the long process of doing so, because I've not let go yet, no-where near, my teeth are dug in and me jaw clamped. It's that _taste_ , I can remember and it haunts..!

 

Though the most pressing-like taste in me mouth right now is that off bacon, right tasty and bits of it stuck between my teeth, making them itch. I pick at my gums with a matchstick; my mouth has no other job right now as Freddy's filling the room with talk all by himsel, a-gesticulating his arms and stirring his tea with irritating ferocity, and slamming down the tea-spoon right violent in order to make some point irrefutable, causing the mother to chuckle and clutch at her bosom at this show of youthful vigour. Throwing my eyes up to the stained, cobwebby ceiling, I wonder if Ma's packed away my Sunday-best, going-away, right-upstanding clobber, hidden it like, so's I can't filthify it before the Normannia. Or mebbe I could nab something of Fred's to wear, something suitable to London.. my cheeks just below my ear redden and prickle with the nerves... mind you, there's no point really trying to put on the style for Maurice; as if I could pull off a suit like he! Though it depends _whose_ suit I'd be pulling off of _whom_... Reddening spreadening down my stubble and I flutter my eyes closed and smile into my thousandth daydream..

 

“Alec? Alec!!”

 

“Hey?” Wuh- oh, right. I'm here, aren't I, not there. Ahem.

 

Fred: “Ahem! We were just _asking_ , cloth-ears, if work is wrapping up well for you? You're doing awful long hours still, overnight even for the last four or five days, Mum says! Small wonder though.. most probably your fine Big House are going to wring every last drop of labouring out of you before they release you from servitude.”

 

Alec, dimly: “Mmm. Aye, seems about right.”

 

Mother interjects, eyebrows a-creasing concern: “But all night, Alec? When you've not been back, I worry! Where you lay your head!”

 

Dad, warming to the sudden general subject of his youngest: “Aye! I hope they've not been crackin' the whip too hard, lad, you'll be doing enough hard graft when you're away at'Argentine.”

 

I object strongly to this conversation and all it contains. I don't want to be reminded that I'm leaving to go far, far away into strange, scary, unfamiliar territory, only for the privilege of breaking my back working still, only this time without the comforts of home to soften it a bit.

 

And so, with my purest affected disinterest, I grunt.

 

“Really, Alec! You need to take more of a firm hand in your own career and interests! No-one else will! Else you'll find yourself taken advantage of, time and again, by the likes of those – Durhams.”

 

Sulkily scratch my cheek wi'me fork.

 

“It's worth noting that Kant considered personal freedom to be the original birthright of every man, and belongs to him because of his humanity. Now, as 'humanity' is the absolute _antithesis_ of capitalism, and is as such robbed of the working classes by the power-hungry elite...” Fred's loud, back-of-throat barking echoes round the kitchen as Pa frowns in effort to understand and Ma gathers the plates, looking at him fondish. I sink down in my chair and nibble anxiously on the crunchy bacon rinds. I rob the ones Ma has left behind before she nabs them away for the dog, the sharp salty flavour boosting me.

 

Every so often, during the infrequent and deliberate breaks in Fred's speech, when the end of his sentence go up, I miserably bleat a “Mmm” or an “Aye” or “Tis, surely.” Last one even goes by unnoticed, brogue I been practising on account of Davey wasted here.

 

“ ... prepared to do your duty but also stand up for your rights as a British citizen – take none of their nonsense, the natives can be right crafty, alright, Alec?”

 

“Yer, I am,” I reply vaguely, a-wondering mostly on how in God's green earth, now that the actual opportunity for confrontation has presented itself, I'm going to git to London on Tuesday, not just evading all but in terms of transport?! Cart? Take too long. Train? That might cost an arm and a leg, ones I don't have sparing, and no mistake. Most of my wages is tied up in my emigrating, though I do have a little, up in me room, in a cigar-box, so... I could count out how much I have, and then amble down the Pheasant and Gate to enquire, off-hand like, how much it'd be, Harley would know, there, he knows all and has a lot of travelling-types down his gaff, _not_ as ruddy romantic as the hole-in-the-walls I were on about earlier, but salesmen, tradesmen, and seasonal workers. I could blend right in and nose my way into the information. Surely someone will be on their way to London, or have done the journey ever, and will impart their info over the time it takes me to get them in a pint? Maybe a half? I could make up some story, say I have a – a – something-or-other to get in a shop, or some relative I have to meet or – what do people _do_ in London? What does Maurice do? Hang about the gentleman's club in his quilted robe and slippers and sip port by the fire?? Sudden, violent flash of nerves and insecurity and yawning distance between us. Don't sink in the mire, Alec, keep focussed...

 

“ - and it's a regime of the utmost imbalance and moral destitution – holding up our oh so honourable Empire! Land of Hope and Glory my _hat_!”

 

“Freddy! Now, don't get too excited,” Dad glances around nervous, as if the Royal Family were somehow within earshot, within in our cramped, steamy-windowed kitchen, their china-cups trembling with rage and hurt as this display. I stare at the crushed settee with its tatty rug over the back as if they were.

 

“Oh, it's the grandest land in the world, true enough,” Freddy stirs his tea, though he hasn't added more sugar, “Only – well there's so much corruption and exploitation – changes _are_ coming..”

 

“Yes, yes, of course son..” says Dad, adjusting his glasses anxious. Ma takes the kettle from the cloud of steam it's spewing out on the hook over the fire and tops up the pot; I reach for it but Fred about knocks it out of me hand reaching over to the bread basket. I splutter: “Hoi! Do you mind?!”

 

Might as well be bleating at the door-stop.

 

“Look at this, everyone,” and Freddy holding aloft a bit of cold toast. I can tell straight off – it's going to be one of his lectures. Maybe time for my trick of falling asleep wi'me eyes still open? I lie. I can't do this.

 

Freddy: “Right. I am a captain of industry, or, if you prefer, a Right Royal Rich Bastard. Licky, you are the Working Classes.”

 

Alec: “More than one?”

 

Fred: “Shut UP.”

 

Alec: * slurps tea *

 

Fred: “Now. These here bread represents ALL of the, er, well, the coal! In England! Alright?” Having ensured we all have seen and accepted the toast, that is: the coal, he uses his butter knife to chop it up violently.

 

Alec: “Industry's in reet trouble, so. Pittance.”

 

Freddy: “Shut it Alec! God, this is important!”

 

Alec: * slurps tea *

 

(composing) Fred: “So. Working Class,” - passes me the crumbled toast, past Ma's bemused but rapt - “It is YOUR job, as a low born peasant wiv no money, to porduce this here ore into a marketable product. For doing which I shall pay you -” - shuffles in his pockets, swivels neck, gets up and roots around the room, then shows me three buttons from the mantel - “three sovereigns a week.”

 

Alec: “Three a week? Yer, alright then!”

 

Dad: * chuckles *

 

Fred: “Gimme back the raw materials – that is, now the produce. Very nice, Alec! Good work! Here's your pay.”

 

Ma: “Don't lose them, Alec! They're off my Sunday blouse.”

 

Alec: “Thank you.”

 

Fred: “Don't bloody thank me for a fair trade!! A _supposedly_ fair trade, that is to say. Now – you've got your money, Alec – but you need basic provisions to live. Food, boy!”

 

Alec: “So? I shall bicycle to the grocer's and buy some.”

 

Fred: “Aha! Aha! And who supplies the grocers?”

 

Silence.

 

Fred: “That's right! The Captain of Industry!”

 

Alec: “Maybe he grows his own?”

 

Fred: * a beat * “He couldn't, to reflect the demand of an ever-increasing population. Working classes are swelling, as with the factory owners' wallets – hey?”

 

Alec: “....”

 

Fred: “I'm Capitalism. I have food – you need it. Here's a weeks' worth: bread, veg, victuals, tea, sugar, spices, snuff – all the best of what the Honourable East Indian has to offer! That'll be three bob, please.”

 

Ma: “CAREful with those buttons, lads, don't throw them, they'll go back under the settee and I'll not see them again till doomsday!”

 

Alec: * eats cold toast * “Thanks!”

Fred: “But, oh dear! Alec, look! You have eaten all of your provisions – now what are you to do?”

 

Alec: “Well, I'm full. That's enough.”

 

Fred: “I _mean_. You have now neither food nor money. What shall you do to survive this coming week?”

 

Alec: “Sure I'll get paid at the end of the week again. That's a job, innit? Work and money for it.”

 

Fred: “B-but! Ca-can't you see that all of the _power_ lies – in – Alright, say I shut down my coal-mine – take my money – see? And all of you workers now out of a job! Now for ya!”

 

Alec: “A right rum thing.”

 

Fred: “Yes.”

 

Alec: “And no mistake.”

 

Fred: “Well?”

 

Alec: * crumples to the floor*

 

Ma: “Licky!!”

 

Da: “Laddie?”

 

Fred *pushes chair back and leaps upon his brother's breast a cramming concern *

 

Alec: “I'm after starving to death. Was that your point, Freddy?”

 

Fred steps on my hand, hard, as he pushes himself up standing over me; and I don't wince, deliberate but grin at him soppy-like. Ma tuts and begins the clearing.

 

Fred: “Shit, it ain't no use to talk to you, Alec. You don't seem to know anything, somehow – perfect saphead.”

 


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

 

 

Good thing about our village – best in fact, since I've outgrown the rope swings (mostly!) - there's lots of pubs to choose from. I've got me local though, the old standby: The Honey Church. Not too dingy but not full of fancy wallpaper and crockery either: it's one of of the nicer pubs – the dirt on the floor gets brushed over fortnightly and the counters get a wipe-down every changing season. You can have a drink there and not be in danger of keeling over for your health, nor being accused of having your nose turned up, for not frequenting, say, the Brown Jug, oh lord, the gin there is rough as a bear's hole. One night me and some of the lads went there after a footie match in Colchester, we'd gotten the carriage home and had been singing and swaying all the way home, all evening and night it took and the cab-driver roaring at us to settle fit to burst. Davey snatched his cap and tossed it onto his horse's ear – ha! Ha! Back in Osmington we wanted to keep on drinking so as to get some real value out of the night so we tried all the usual places – idiocy, it were three in the bloody morning – a-laughing and carousing and making such merry, you would never have twigged that we'd lost three nil! Eventually we got to the Jug and spying the light on upstairs, we keened and sang and weedled with Dick and Emily Durkin to open up, please, we're commiserating, we're – ha! Ha! We're in mourning for our loss!! The Durkins have an insatiable knack for never saying no to a paying customer, and we were waving the last of our wages pleadingly, riotously. Down they came and away we went, and that night, the next morning, evening and up until the Sunday when the bells felt like they were beating against the inside of our skulls – a blur, a blip, a lost weekend. But what a one! That I don't particularly want to repeat – _ever_ but particularly now when I've got so many people I need to stand up to – Fred, Ayres, Borenius, Maurice... I've a feeling that I won't be able to win him over with my wiles in the cold, horribly normalizing shock of daylight. So I must rely on whatever wit and persistence I were gifted with – but not tonight, not tonight.

 

I'm on my way out now; stomach full, clothes not new but clean and darned and let out for my legs longening, as Ma tuts but she's proud; my hair combed desperately but sprung back curling. I do rather hold curls to be effeminate and I do attempt to straighten them wi'water (doesn't work) but all the same I been complimented on and had 'em pulled on teasing by enou lasses (and a lad or two) to justify keeping them long: though they get in my eyes when I'm working and stick to my forehead and cheeks – but right now, who's working?

 

Freddy tried to get me to go to a Socialist Meeting or some such in the town hall, he were vehement and high on passion, and I asked who in their right mind would organize a radical bruhaha in our sleepy little village in the back-arse of nowhere? It was the wrong thing to say and he were main offended personal, especially as I refused staunch to go: here, sat in the middle of a crowd of roaring flat-caps, stamping feet and arms waving fists about righteous? Nah mate, I'm off to the pub. I said it were to catch up with the lads as “Who knows” when I'll ever see them again, my leaving Old Blighty forever and God knows how long, and Fred well he misted over a bit, and sent me on me way with a pat on my arm and, more welcomingly, a half-a-crown – real – pressed into my palm. No messing with toast or buttons now: brass tacks! For to spend, for my pleasure, tonight, tonight!!

 

Tonight the Honey Church, flowers in milk-cans flanking the wooden panelled door! Stools with torn and carefully-mended worn red felt, the holey old dart-board, the windows with red and green alternating diamonds, the bar, with every shape and size and make of whiskey, ale, beer, stout, gin, pork scratchings and the lads around me like a crowd all slapping backs and making cracks and “I'll get them in, shall I? Though it was your turn last week, Pat, when we were turfed out! Your round really!” “Arrah – don't you ever forget anything?! Shirley! A round of the usual over here!” “Come on, Alec, what are you staring at? Grab that stool for me – and one for yourself – that's a boy -”

 

Swinging the stool between me legs, I plonk myself down between Davey and Arch, with my back to the wall so's I have a fair good view of whoever comes in the back door over by the bogs and the alcove out to the back garden. I usually sit thus because I'm facing the archway into the snug too and you can appraise and appreciate and whisper on the women that come and go with their vermouths and dainty little ciders and we can speculate – if we don't already know from being neighbours forever – on whether the fellas with them are brothers, fathers, cousins, hired hands – male gigalos even, as Davey crowed to us all once when a fair right dandy looking bloke in a brown suit with a _purple shirt_ and _red kerchief_ come in with a real beaut on his arm - “Ey, lads, clock that couple wot just come in – how steep do you reckon his rates are?” And – and Pete he says. “I bet there's something _else_ what _won't_ get steep for her – but for one of you's lot – hey? Hey? C'mere!! You know you want to go over and offer him a bob for a job!!” And we all falling about helpless as he pokes us each in turn, going so far as to grab me in a headlock and choke me till I'm about scrabbling for air for the laughing and the blocked windpipe. I'm sure it were a co-incidence that he gave me a particular ribbing after that joke; leastways it were a reet good one!

 

But tonight. Here they are, they're in – CLINK “Cheers, lads, to another week! Down the hatch – everyone ready? One – two – three – ally oop!!”

 


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

 

 

....Spinning, everything's... lurching round, the _walls,_ the pictures on 'em, the windows.. why's everyone, _whirling_ round so? Dancing yes, they are, look at 'em! Dresses and coats flashing by so quick but you can see the smiles, hear the laugher, bit fuzzy though, but ev-even the people sat _down,_ the lads about me is – is _ro_ tating, oh God, am I on that ship already, I feel that sea-sick!! Quick, quick, Alec, grab something or you'll fly overboard!

 

“Alec, are you coming? We're going out for a breather.. here are your legs working at all! You look like you've got shingles!!”

 

“Ha ha ha!”

 

Oh Lordy.. got to keep my hand to my head to keep it from falling _off..._ Aaah that cold fresh air is lovely, is like drinking deep from a spring in a mountain. Perhaps I'll survive after all.

 

Plonking myself down sitting – or rather, being plonked down, I'm lowered by some strong worn green felt jacketed arm – I suck in more air, great lungfuls and feel myself more like myself. Yes indeed, these are the golden – _hic_ – days!

 

Long way down. To the _ground_ _._ Mm. But I can keep my balance – er – swing myself up sitting again, if I just, cling to this wall... like this... right... May have just had a _little_ small bet – but – bit too much to drink. At's fine! I mean – _all's_ fine. Lemme – just – my glass – ah....

 

* swig *

 

Aaaah! That's the cure! I tell thee, there's nothing on God's green earth like a few scoops with the lads down the local. Salt of the earth, my boys! Davey! Steve! Larry Tom! Kevin Divine! Arch and – Old Petey!

 

“Ey! Old Petey!”

 

“Less of the old, Alec lad, we were in the same class at school, cheeky mare!”

 

“Hoi! Mind! I've not got the best of balance right now!”

 

“Yer, only half ten and you're plastered. A fine specimen _you_ are to be sending out representative!”

 

“I can show the Brit- the Brit – _hic_ – the Britsh re _fine_ ment and _ele_ gence.”

 

“Oh can you now! But we've the bloody toffs for that – you need to show your _mettle_!”

 

“Aaargh, gerroff!”

 

“Lads, _lads,_ no fighting you rotten shower! Show some basic human decency? Or affect some,” Davey diplomatically inserts himself between me and Pete on the packing crate, forcing my arse over with his, “Here, budge up.”

 

Swaying a bit, like I was on the bridge of a ship, ship that'll lately take me far far away from everything, from everyone, I wave my drink sluggish and slur, soppy, “Yer all my mates, fellas, ch – _hic_ – chaps! Aren't yer?”

 

“Of c- _course_ Alec!” Larry-Tom whacks me on the back and Steve bashes his glass against mine. Davey puts his arm around my shoulder which is a lot more welcomey.

 

We're all of us sat out the back of the Honey, in the yard, us draped about the mossy stone walls, on the beer barrels and packing crates that loiter up the back alley where the deliveries do be. Usually it's rotten with horse dung and banging and clanking and arguing over payments and spillages and slucing and mopping but not tonight, tonight! Tonight we're having a BEER, and a FAG, and a bloody good time!

 

“Ey up!” And another swig from the glass for all of us – whether we're ready or not. That's the rule.

 

“Aaaah.. now this, _this,_ is the finest stuff.” Larry-Tom smacks his lips and is totally right in doing so; this is the finest beer in Shropshire, did you know? Brewed locally and it's won awards in all! Last year it won finest beer in Shropshire and weren't Alice Whiting main chuffed! She's the proprietor’s wife like – the proprietress, I would imagine, only she don't serve at the bar as much as he – unbecoming and all as it seem, she's the brewer – er – brewess! Hats off to her anyroad, tasty little wench knows what's good for us'n! * chug *

 

“Now, mate,” and Steve grabbing Larry-Tom's elbow, “by rights, if'n we had the _lolly_ , like, on such an occasion such as this when our dear Alec is flying the nest and the village and heading off adventuring over the ocean” - here I smile and incline my hand grand and gracious - “we _should_ rightfully be drinking to him some whisky.”

 

“Whisky? You and your Irish shit! What we _should_ git is some gin – strongest they got – MAN's drink – put hairs on your chest!”

 

“Is that right? And what if I've enou' already?”

 

“Get out of it – _I've_ seen you after the footie, and when we been swimming, and any other chance you get to strip – aha! You've not grown a hair in ten year!”

 

“Hoi! You cheeky fuck you! How would you like my knuckle hairs between your pearly whites!”

 

“Will you _listen_ to yourself, you drunk tart – AAAARGH!!”

 

Watching Steve and Larry-Tom come to blows I feel so fond and familiar – how can I leave?

 

But – but onwards and upwards, ey, as they say! We must all – musn't we? Me, anyroad, the wheels are in motion and it's all arranged and - * swig * Swinging my bottle down I keep my face tilted upwards to look at the stars, they're so clear tonight and bright and yet inside I feel so dull – Davey shuffles beside me and jogs me back to earth. Sigh, and scrabble in my coat pocket, where's me baccy tin, I'm sure I stuffed it in -

 

Hey – what's that – bugger me, what's that reet wonderful smell? Sweet and buttery and - “Here,” Davey says low, towards me, and I look over to see him push something into my lap. It's a small scrunched up brown paper package.

 

“For me?” I say, giving him a look quizzical, distracted wholesale from my search for tobacco and in truth, from all my troubles for a change. He just smiles and nods towards it and I know not to embarrass him gushing, so I just pick it up theatrical and examine it close and shake it, and says I “What is it? Let's have a butchers!” I unwrap the brown paper to find – oh my giddy aunt! Waou!!

 

“Dairy Milk,” says Davey, squeezing pleased down into his shoulders and swinging his legs on the package crate underneath us, “for your going away, like.. on the ship, and when you get there, it'll last a good bit if you keep it wrapped on – hey!” - I dip my hand into the rustling paper and hold up a brown soft square; Davey must've been hiding these on his person all evening till this very moment. Nudging me, mock exasperation, (well I say mock! I know those who know me consider me most maddening!) “Now Alec, you must _save_ it, use it sparing, them's your vittles for the boat trip.”

 

Alec: “But we can have some now, Davey, and I'll wrap up the rest for later? Don't expect me to resist it when it's right in front of me! Go on – come on – to see me off and toast me!”

 

Davey laughs and shakes his head but takes a piece and pops it into his mouth, I do likewise and we grin and ooooo the sweet milky buttery flavour, cocoa, and suddenly I'm back in that upstairs bedroom at Penge, the same sweet satisfied feeling in my head and stomach, that memory just shot through me with the speed and demand of a bullet. Open my eyes again and it's Davey's blue eyes meet mine. We smile and lick our lips and work our tongues to get every last morsel of taste; Davey coughs then and fumbles for a fag, re-assert adulthood; I wrap up the rest of the small squares of chocolate careful.

 

I tuck the crumpled paper into my inside coat pocket, catch his eye and tap his knee jaunty.

 

“Don't think you're getting any more now! I'm much obliged to you, but I'm having the rest of them all to myself if'n you please. A reet bit of comfort when I'm abroad.”

 

Davey manages a smile but his eyes are huge. I feel a pang also, back of my throat, so I wriggle nearer to him and elbow him. “Cor, they must've cost you a pretty penny though, Dave. I'm made up, d'you know I'd have chocolate before beer most days!” Davey blows out some smoke. “It's not any bother at all, Alec.” He fidgets. “I mean, it'll be main quiet round these parts without you. How in the honour of God will I keep that bloody kip of a place from caving in on me own?”

 

I straighten my back, cross my arms, say, “Ah, the place'll do fine.. the squire will win his lousy election and the manor will be dirty with new tea-sets and silverware and servants for to wash 'em..” I'm over-talking, I know, playing up, for it feels as if I'm jumping the sinking ship whilst Davey bails it.

 

Davey: (musing) “Mayhap I'll go away too.”

 

Alec: “Write to me if you do. I shall send for you – set you up nice and proper.” * wink * “My pockets'll be lined by that stage, just you wait and I'll see to your'n too. We'll be rich old bastards together!”

 

For now though, there's a fierce nip in the air and we huddle together and chain-smoke for warmth, though we really don't have enough tobacco to last the whole night at the rate we're going, well, worry on that later.

 

Back door of the pub swings forth wildly and smacks against the outside wall, and emerges Larry-Tom, Steve, four gin and tonics and a caterwauling:

 

“ _When I were bound apprentice_

_In famous Lincolnsheeeeer,_

_Full well I served my master,_

_For more than seven year -_ ”

 

“Oh no!” I wail, and attempt to scramble off my crate and over the ivy wall into the neighbouring back garden, but Davey grins, pins, and joins in, a-mauling me down to submission on the worn grass and me ale all over me.

 

“ _As me and me comrades_ ,

_Were setting of the snare_ (here Steve traps my leg like a vice in his ruddy strongman grip. Bastard!),

_'Twas then we seed the gamekeeper_ ,

_For him we did nort care_ -

 

_For we can WRESTLE and FIGHT, my boys -_ !”

 

“ _Gerroff_ me!” “Whoa, there, easy!”

“And – and jump o'er everywhere -”

“OH! Tis my delight -” “I'll call the Old Bill! This is assault! You prickers!”

 

“Hey! Alec, aw, come on, give over, come back! Comon and have your drink, all's forgiven!”

“Like as if _you_ were in the position to forgive Larry-Tom Lundy!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Next morning, tortured, tousled, dead, destroyed, I wake up to find a letter for me on the living-room mantel, propped between Mother's Family Prayer and the worn waxy candle-stick. Relief so all consuming that I stumble back up to bed with it, unopened but clutched tight, collapsing back on the crumpled gingham sheets, a familiar hunger stirring in my sickly stomach.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

 

 

Gawd, but I'm pure wrecked. Didn't sleep a wink last night and now here I am a-bouncing away at the crack of dawn – no, not even, the faint hint of morning is still a few minutes off, I'd say, the black east very very slowly introducing pink, like the cherry mixer at the bottom of a gin – trundling along on the precarious top of a carriage, wet leaves slapping my face and breath huffing out in clouds, mingling with the fog. My hands are freezing and I keep my sleeves rolled down over them, common enough though that may likely look. Already this feels like the longest journey I've ever been on. Much longer than coming this same way a'fore! Though my mind were similarly occupied.. not to this level of obsession and desperation though. No. Something's alive in me that weren't here before and it's not always welcome, but it wonot go, so..

 

It's the cold. It's the time of day – _night_. It's me – that's it really, me nerves have gone. I feel already the world's biggest fool for racing off to book the earliest possible route from the village to London, like I were nowt more than a dog he whistled for. Groaning, I know I shouldn't – I should stay here where I'm safe, I belong, and save my adventures for the Argentine, and even apart from that sensible-ness, I ought to send him away with a flea in his ear, that I ought! Keeping me waiting so long and then tossing me the merest crumb of acknowledgement, forcing _me_ to come to his environment, assuming I'll go willing into his lair, a mere dumb animal actually _eager_ to be prey. Borenius would call me unnatural, oncommon, wrong – he'd be right. Instinct and pride tells me to stay away and yet I could no more do so than stop breathing, eating, going on.

 

_Fierce_ cold, goes into you like arrows. My shoes got unavoidably wet in the puddles across the lane and the ditches on the way to the coach-stop, so there's the feeling in my feet gone for a Burton. Wriggling my toes nearly makes me double over with exhaustion – what kind of a caper is this for Summer, I ask you! Jolly old England indeed, home of the King's royal rain! Rocking, but sank down between a couple of cases, alternately jabby and squishy, I'm positioned right behind the surly smoking driver; I'm attempting to inhale wot he blows out 'cos I've none rolled and me baccy tin is a-ways down in the bottom of my bundle. My pockets are occupied with hankies and money and certain important papers – one of which I keep unfolding and reading and caressing – not in public though! The couple of pound I dug out of the bottom of my travelling-trunk where Fred'd put em with a knowing “open it when you get there” - oh Fred, the golden heart on you – but I couldn't wait, this is a life or death situation, or rather, the difference between wanting to die or go on living could hang on today, tonight, so I had to, I need to get to London and the ways and means are secondary to that simple fact.

 

My other – whoa!! - we take a sharp left and the woman to my right lurches into me. I heave her back to her corner to her thanks, it's main crowded up here on the roof and the luggage, being heavier, seems to have secured the comfiest and safest spot nestled in the centre of the thick canopy. Actually my legs are wedged painfully under a trunk full of books, or bricks, by the weight of it, but I dasen't stretch them out as I'd be invading the lady's lap with my big old boots. Wonder where she's going? London, like I? I eye the two kiddies over the way – hers? I didn't mark whether they was all together, half-asleep as I was, still am, well maybe a quarter-asleep now. They all got on two stops after Osmington and I were a bit put out, if I'm honest; hoped I'd have the place, such as it is, to myself for the duration of the journey to Dartford. But as it happens, am now pretty glad of the company – camaraderie, if you like; I've been feeling pretty lonely this past short while, not least because I've been craving the company of one particular person – absent. Well, it's him. See, ever since I – we – got into this, what would you call it – entanglement, yeah, like a briar, ever since we made there be an 'us', - there's been secrets. Nothing _but_ secrets and lies and omissions and excuses and fobbings-off, it feels like, and it don't come to me natural! Or to be more accurate, like, it don't come to me _skilful_. There's the softly-softly sneaky approach, it's true, when you're a-honing in on a fox or grey crow or hawk or mink, say. But there's also the moment when you have to swing your shooter eye-level and bloody give them a blasting, no finesse or fanciness about it! This is me heading to London – loaded gun, raring and ready. That's if he don't startle, hear me coming, and bolt. I know I've miscalculated before. But there's no advice to be sought, is there? Tell me folks – did you ever, not in a month of Sundays, not if it were that or the noose!! And Freddy – do me a favour! He'd take it upon himself to slap some sense into me good and proper – or he'd try to, which would be even worse, having to toss my own brother over me shoulder. Tis far from the British-Empire Service to Out-wards Goods secondary clerical office second in command _he_ were raised – but there you go, his pockets lined but his arms no match for mine anymore. Will the same sad fate befall me? Better avoid offices at any cost. There's nowt so handy to a man than the ability to swing about a sack of spuds or toss hay-bales about or have a good-old whack at the Queensberry rules.

 

Who else could one shuffle up to as a confidante? Old Sally? No, but I think if it were any _other_ sort of secret... I don't want to sully her opinion of me, the way she looks at me glowing, sometimes, red-cheeked and head a-shaking when I manages to pull of a right corker and make everyone about die laughing – although maybe she's just stewing embarrassed for me(!) No – not at all. I'm a right talented joker. And anyroad, I can't discuss the subject of sex with a _woman_ – sure what do they know about it! Then again what do I know myself, besides what I like, and that's something that don't cross a girl's mind – a girl like Sally for one. Good gel she is.

 

The lads, Pete, oh my God no, Larry-Tom – don't even _start_!

 

Oh it's deadly dull, dreary, rocking along above on top of this here cart, thinking on secrets, and private bedroom shenanigans, and jumping into love with the wrong sort of person, well, you sort of end up severed from the people who watched you grow up; that is, you're – I'm? - separated from the people you was once main jovial with, all on the same level, like the lads, the home-folks.

 

I feel main burdened, and guilty, of deception of trickery: that want of confidence is the work of the devil. I close my eyes and imagine whispering my secret into an understanding ear - “ _I'm in love,_ ” - I smell chocolate, beat my heart and feel no better – after all, being but an ear it don't offer me no comfort or assurance or advice.

 

Ee, t'other night at the boozery were great, weren't it, up until the lads deposited me bodily at the back door, and I stumbled up the stairs crazily, nearly ripping the banister away from the wall, tripped into my room, a-chuckling still as I pulled me boots off and coat, and lying back on the blankets.. only to stare, breath gradually slowing down, at the grey ceiling going lighter and lighter as the sun crept up. Morning couldn't come soon enough so as to begin the healing process! Always drunkest before dawn, after all. I clutched my blankets for something to hold onto. Wished that I had a picture of him! Or that I were any good at etching. All I knowed is I'd be able to pick him out of a crowd instant – aye, even a massive mess of roaring football supporters, flailing and screaming and scrambling – makes a bloke feel so proud to think on it – someone looking like him, looking at someone like me, the way he done.

 

Rattling some more, and the odd spatter of rain evident, we swerve down a lane and I notice railway tracks – must be getting nearer! Won't be sorry to be shot of this carriage, it's that cramped, and the driver – odd sort of bloke, he reckoned he were – now, get this – a _Knight_ of His Majesty, invited me to call him 'Sir', like, and I did an' all, might as well be kind to the poor sod – as clearly a fully striped-up member of the loony platoon as you could ever hope to encounter on a stroll around the square!!

 

This morning at five o'clock as the day begins, began, I had myself trained to wake up well before dawn, stumbling round to gather my bits in the dim candlelight, and looking in the glass sick with nerves, shave and arrange my trembling body for the day. My Sunday Best that Mam'd thankfully ironed; my shoes I scrubbed myself yesterday and wedged my blistery feet into. Spent a while picking grass-seeds off'n my cap – though Heaven knows it's likely full of them all over again now, and blossom petals and pollen and bits of bark – all that we're now whipping by thundering!

 

* * * * *

 

Phew – I were freezing me knackers off on the top of that omnibus – not ideal as I'm hoping to put them to use later – and now I'm sweating and stewing like Mum's Sunday Roast – chicken it were, last week and a lamb shank this coming Sunday, best in Dad's shop, for to see me off proper. But let's put that thought aside for now, shall we? Put it away in a drawer and pile some shirts and socks and old comics on top, there we go, worry on that later.

 

Right now I've managed, through some miracle, to get myself on the train to London – I've never made the trip on my own before, the last time it were ... someone else that did all the buying and planning and tugging me by the hand, and .. ah. Think on that later, too. Squashed in the overheated carriage, I take to rubbing my sore head anxious; I go to replace my hat but then check meself, remember that there's ladies present. I catch the eye of the one sat next to me and she returns it, but curious, cautious. I wonder how mad and sweaty and hot and fidgety I look. God, but I'm desperate for a smoke. Worse luck, I tucked my baccy tin way down even further in the depths of my bag, for fear of pickpockets – the city, you know yourself, cannae be too careful. But that were a bit premature of me, weren't it? Didn't realize how reet twitchy and itchy I'd get sat here for hours a-leaning my elbows on my jiggling knees, my hands cupping my face, getting jogged and poked and leaned over from all sides, guts churning. And the whiff of the place!! Though I've contributed my own fair amount surely, the toxic mix of the productions of about fifteen people in this tiny carriage would fell a horse!! In fact being in such close quarters wiv a horse might smell a blimmin' sight better. No – actually, I know from experience it wouldn't. Less said...

 

“Ey. You want one?” Ha? I snap back to the train carriage, reality – dearie me, my mind does have a tendency to wander many a time and oft, particularly lately – and focus in on a pre-rollie, held aloft and extended to my right and wobbling as we bump rhythmically over the train-tracks below. I slide my gaze up the fingers wi'it and up an arm, a dirty pink shawl, a black buttoned-up collar and a dark, dusky-looking face, heady lidded looking at me right knowing. Oh here we go. Automatic, I glance down her quickly, like lightning, to see exactly what manner of a dress she has on, how generous it is or isn't, I train myself not to care, either way, nor to notice her warm thigh sticking to mine, in fact bumping against mine with every rock of the carriage.

 

Widening her smile, I see her gap-toothed mouthful, red lips curving. “Y'alright luvvie? Doncher want it?” Oh God: it's starting already and I've not even disembarked..! Fag looks so very tempting though, especially when I'm on tenterhooks, she knows, she widens her eyes, but I hesitate. Me! I! Hesitate! When I can read her like a book, what she's angling for. Just a girl she is and she's gotten the better of me. Where did my confidence disappear to but I can't seem to – shoo. Look. She's just a girl I've had just heaps of them, every which way. But – not just a girl, is she – a London girl, and that's not my area of experience, not a lot anyway! If Ma could see me now...! But there again, I've already jumped into bed with what I can only assume is a London boy – and here I am, not the least sorry, but a-chasing him down for more..

 

I politely decline, to my embarrassment (and the dismay of my gasping lungs). She raises her thick eyebrows and withdraws her hand, the frilly edge of her shawl sliding along her white arm. It seems easy and noble, in the first two seconds, but for the rest of the journey excruciating we remain stuck together, against each other, more so when the corpulent man on my left yawns, stretches, and doesn't contract again. _Strength_ , Lord!

 


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

 

Crumpled, the return-ticket in my hand that I'm trying to keep safe as I can't swing my bag around – because there's too many people about – that I've collapsed in upon myself, bowed down my head, pushed my shoulders up and in, and my steps short and sideways, where-ever there's a free piece of paving-stone, which there isn't, and everyone looks big and massive and confident and determined, even the women while I get brushed along the crowd like a stray piece of newspaper – crumpled.

 

London. Here again, on my own this time. Staggeringly different when you don't have a hand grasping yours tightly and leading you, laughing, to somewhere where it's merry and gay and smells of food and strong booze and perfume and strange tobaccao and sounds like revelry and singing and softly, laughingly squeaking cheap mattresses. But that was long ago, now Alec, weren't it? Whiskey under the bridge. Although recent events have brought him a little nearer to my mind.. Never wondered on him after. Not like Mr. Hall. Maurice. I would have to choose the most ridiculous, un-reachable man to fall in with, to need most awful, and him cosseted away in his – his British Museum, like an exhibit, and me left to work out wherever the devil that is from here!

 

Train station is enormous, just outrageous, don't recognize it, St. Pancreas I were in last time, I'll have to ask Borenius if I ever make it back home what it is old Pancras is peddling, is it the paupers, the children, the meek or the Wonder and Awe? Aaah.. there's a sign.. Liverpool!? But that must be miles away don't tell me I've gone and – oh: Liverpool Street Station. I see. So keep walking in that direction, end up in Liverpool, jolly idea I _don't_ think. Not that I've had many more ideas. Everyone disembarked the train like a flood breaking a dam and I were carried along like a twig down the Severn, and allowed myself to be so, until I realized I had no idea where I were meant to be going and could very well be heading in completely the wrong way. Trouble with the city is there's no markers, like stars in the sky to tell you directions or the place the sun is sitting, or moss on a tree or the worn parts of the woods. No-one looks exactly open to striking up a conversation on the matter of my whereabouts, helpful-like, neither, so what I do is, do likewise to everyone else and elbow my way – even against girls – to somewhere – anywhere! - where I can stop, the flood of people carrying me walking, like I've lost agency over my body and I don't like it! Help! But I manage to force my way over to a wall shiny with big black stones, and long, vast barred windows, and yellow framed posters, and I flop against it, panting, head down and leaning on my elbow. Jesus, I feel more like a sheep being herded up in a field than a man of steely determination who glared at himself in the mirror this morning.

 

Looking up and around, I try to make sense of the huge enclosed glassy ceilings, the SIZE of it! Never been in the city alone before; never took notice of the surroundings. We have this pictorial periodical at home what has pictures and descriptions of the Worlds' Fairs, all the new inventions and displays and crazy foreign clothes and the _buildings_! You can't convey such vastness in paper and ink. Nor I, right now, in wordings.

 

Heart is thumping – people push past me still, all manner of them, bustling forwards and backwards, like ants, talking, shouting, swearing, crying; I press by back on the cold, dirty tiles and just watch, and I listen: steam hissing, engines whining on the tracks, birds – birds? Pigeons swooping, announcements bellowed over the Tannoy. What is it all? Why am I here – what am I playing at?! Instantly I want to grab the next train right back home again – find a vendor, get my ticket punched and be back in the green fields and low stone walls and wooden buckets full of petunias and marigolds and me mam baking, taking hours to knead and be stoking the fire, I can nearly taste the warm currenty scones with the butter melting through and running down fingers as you lick the crumbs off'n your chin... I can near taste it. Home.

 

Home.. yes, but then I remember that Home hasn't felt quite as it used to lately – it's off, it's lacking, it's me, I'M lacking, it's him, he's here, why I'm here, and if I must fight my way through this rotten, filthy dirty labyrinth to reach him waiting – at this Museum – waiting on me, even if he's stern, even if he tries to sully all with offers of money, even if he's threatening – I have to see him, to feel full, whole, like myself again, better than myself, even – more, the man I were when I were with him! It felt like – reaching a peak, like finally tearing open the biggest Christmas parcel - The Best Alec Possible! - only to have it snatched away.

 

Right Alec – square shoulders out of strength and readiness, not cowering and defensive – you're here in London, you have a meeting – Lord if Ma knowed! Or Freddy, or Davey! - and now you made it this far, the only thing I know how to do is keep on keeping-on like a bird that flew – AAAAARRRGH shagging pigeon dive-bombed me!! Fuck off! Yeah.. yeah! You're scared of my cap, aren't you! Bastard! Better not let on that a bird frightened me, or I might as well scrawl VICTIM on me forehead and present meself on Jack the Ripper's doorstep!

 

Ay up – let's go. Buttoning my coat firm to the top, I pull down me cap, hunch me shoulders, and as they say, brace myself to plunge back into the human deluge – making it none the cleaner, of course, for my own attendance.

 

Keeping focussed on a huge map across the way I've spied, I push on and on forward like wading through mud, effortfully ignoring the shouts and tugs on my arms and feet that trip me. Finally underneath the huge map, I peer up in order to try and make head nor tail of where on earth I am.

YOU ARE HERE. And a little gloved, cuffed hand pointing to it. To me, apparently. But where's here?

 

Alright... “Liverpool Street Railway Station”, that much I'd discerned already, but where to? So many little labels... I'm in the East End, apparently, with not so much as the foggiest idea where on earth I'm meant to be going, well, the Museum of course, but how to get there, there's the rub; could hop in a cab of course but what if I were sat there for two bleedin hours a-going round in circles, and the cabbie then turns to me demanding the absolute King's Ransom for swinging me round the scenic route and me none the wiser to correct him? No, not on your Nelly, I may be a bogtrotter mate but here's no flies on me. Simply cannot afford a cab, even if it were a quarter hour down the street; I shall have to hoof it, soon as I work out which way to hoof _in_. Maybe I could hop on a bus but that rather necessitates knowing when to hop _off_ and I wouldn't be able to pick out this flaming Museum of Maurice's out of a line-up. But the bugger must be here somewhere, aye?

 

“St. Paul's Cathedral”... “India House”... “Old Bailey”... “Newgate” (One I've heard of finally and will determine to steer clear of! Like as if crime and punishment seeps out of the brickwork!)... “Savoy Hotel”... “Clapham Junction” ... “St. Martin-In-The-Fields”... Fuck, I'm blowed if I can make any sense of this, what _are_ these places? I'm being jostled from all sides and my neck is getting a crick and I'm starting to sweat with worry I won't be able to find the place...

 

Surely Mr. Hall wouldn't've lied, or contrived to a meeting-place that were deliberately out-of-the-way and awkward so as to put me off or call me a no-show or – Oh God!! Send me on the Long Stand?! I've had that more than once on various first-days on the job, must be that gullible, oh not you too Maurice.. After I laid out the Red Carpet repeatedly at the boathouse, a little give wouldn't go amiss. Though he's made no secret that this meeting is entirely due to my badgering, and nothing at all to do with his desperate desire for me. We'll see sir, we shall..

 

“Garrick Club”... “National Gallery” - hang about, that's like a museum, innit? A gallery with art and that? Maybe this is the right area... “Drury Lane”... “Royal Op -” - shit! Yes! There it is! “British Museum” - that's got to be the place! Oh my giddy aunt it's _miles_ away, but there it be! Right. I may be nowt but a bloody backwoods boor but I can make out this much: I'm east, and I need to go west, and stay above the river. So off I trot.

Pushing my way through the crowd, again, my breath I should hold like diving in the lake at Penge, I feel flames of excitement in my stomach, curling upwards like a freshly-set fire. Straining round, as I move, to the huge clock hanging down from the roof in some grand feat of engineering, - it's 9.30am. He'll be there – at the B.M – in five (check the note again again again!!) hours. So my mission is to make my way there within – _well_ within – this time. This is good. A firm, deliberate plan re-energizes me and allows me to focus my jitters constructive, like. Like an army manoeuvre into enemy territory to the P.O.W camp – I find the nearest stairs and race up them, ploughing through he crowd politeness be damned, it don't seem to matter a jot in the city, I leave my hesitance behind and emerging into the daylight to be smacked, right in the eyes and the air gushing out of my lungs to this – unreal city, aye, with the crowds flowing round like so many ants and the yellow fog a-come creeping down.. I felt like one pale man all alone.

 

For what felt like hours, then, weeks, I trudge frail, insignificant, shabby, miserable. London; for a city full of so much bustle and life and energy, she must get this way by sucking it out of you.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

 

 

I-is it just me or is the air getting thinner, dirtier, smokier? Smells assaulting me already, sticking to me and I can feel sweat patches on my best shirt under me arms and I've me cap off, boiling hot, and not just because there's ladies present out here here but I'm about collapsing and I've wrung it into a ball with the worry and fear. That I've actually gone and done this! What am I _doing_ , creeping nervously along the wonky footpath in LONdon of all places, biggest city there is, centre of the whole world, how will I get around, how will I breathe, not a familiar landmark nor a friendly face to be seen!!

 

Looking round at all the other people milling by – a sea of hats, jackets, baskets, boots, bonnets, moustaches, starched collars, raggedy sleeves, skirts, slacks, freckles, hair neat slicked back and then long and loose – marching, marching, marching, they all know where they are going and in oh such a hurry – they'll know I'm a fraud, that on my own, I've never been next to or near anywhere bigger and busier than Longstanton -! I try to look tough but I fear my eyes, huge and sparkling with – nerves – betray me. Ma says that I'm incapable of a word a lie, with my eyes the way they is.

 

Oh Lord, little does she know. Maybe she _does_ know; you never know with mothers. I've been carrying round a huge one, a lie, a significant secret...I've not lied to her, outright. She never asked, “Alec, what did you get up to last Thursday night?”, nor, “Alec, what's upsetting thee, lad?” or “Who has you in such a tizzy?” But it's such a huge secret, 6 foot high, about thirteen stone, broad-shouldered, lanky-legged, shaggy-haired, sorrow-faced. And I'm a-lugging him round just about everywhere with me – heavy and weighing me down so. But I couldn't bear to let go.

 

Rummaging round awkwardly in the inside pocket of my coat, I take out the telegram careful and read it for the umpteenth time today – I've cast my eyes over it greedily dozens of times since I first unfolded it.

 

“a large building” - look, he's given me _some_ clue - “anyone will tell you which” - let's hope it don't come to that, me asking round, I can read a sign, if I need to, and wouldn't you know I'd end up asking directions from his bleedin' mother or something! No, want to keep this between us. Between A.S and M. C. H. Flapping the paper, I read it again, and again, learning to dodge round the people passing right by my shoulders.

 

It's a brisk note, like my first one to him had been. Hard to read any emotion in it at all. He's agreed to meet, I can safely take that away from it, and were glad to, but is this a positive, really? Will he threaten me, or offer me hush money? Or merely seek to register his definite disinterest in person: reject me outright and command me to stop bothering him, it's pointless, it was a mistake, a one-off, a fever, a bit of fun but no more, no further. My forehead and eyebrows furrow in determination. We'll see if it's a one-off. That can't be said now definitively, now can it? Not if there's a 'two' on the horizon.

 

 

 

* * * * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Flowers, love?”

“Hot chestnuts!”

“Daily Mail – right here – Prime Minister dismisses the European threat!”

“Cockles and mussels here ready to go!”

“Periwinkles, freshest you can get, just out of the sea this morning, _shill_ ing a cone!”

“Aaaaa-pples!!”

“Jellies – bag for a ha'penny, three for a penny – _Thank_ you dearie, and good day to you!”

Mmm.. strawberry flavour! And what's this yalla one - * chew chew * apricot! My favourite!

There's a bit more room to breathe down here – that and it's a fair sight more honest and hearty!

 

More my scene. It's still jammers of course, but people are in less of a rush, they're hanging about dawdling, stopping at stalls, buying, bargaining, bringing out their wallets and rummaging in their purses and pockets. What would Our Freddy say if he were to clock all of this muddy money changing hands, eager to spend all rapid and chaotic.

 

Mind you he likes a jelly as much as I. They seem to be only whetting my appetite though, awakening my stomach into it's wanting. Blimey, my breakfast of coffee and cold sausages and Mam's scones and marmalade and porridge and bananas, what I snaffled from the larder, seems like a lifetime ago! Is it any wonder I'm starving. I'll have to find somewhere to eat before I meet Maurice – for strength, and so my tummy doesn't gurgle embarrassingly when I'm showing him the right way regardinghis undeniable feelings for me. Just needs reminding, that's all! This morning on the train I were so reet agitated, fretting so, I thought I'd never eat again! But now, ravenous.

 

Scrunching up the empty sweet paper, I stuff it in my pocket. What shall I have now? I'm not used to this freedom; Ma makes my breakfast, lunch and tea at home; or if I'm at work: Mrs. D provides. If I'm out and about in the village, I just stroll off to the Dog and Duck or the Harvest Bowe – Bernadette behind the bar does a cracking rarebit just the way I like it – the cheese hot and oozy and just the merest hint of browning on top. Fuck!! I should have gotten more jellies. I've a penny – several.

 

As it happens, Fred gave me some other money last Thursday, rather grandly, and with an all knowing fatherish smile, you might say, but it _were_ kind – of course it's intended for the Argentine, not for making jaunts up to London hunting out old lovers – there isn't enough for that anyway ha ! Ha! If I recall the rates... Not that I were paying... Anyroad I thanked him, buyed him a gin and it and more ale on myself, and he regaled me with tales of the Socialist Utopia of the Outer Regions of the Empire – I gather that these rebellious ideas flourish the farther you get from the centre of order and government – England, London to be exact. Though some disorder can be similarly created right here on Westminster’s doorstep – if I play my cards right, that is. But I were saying – on Freddy.

 

Fred says that the essence of true communism is sharing – but I find my visceral reaction to someone – like, say, Davey – getting stuck into what's mine – like, say, stealing the nicest piece of lamb out of my stew like he done two Sundays ago – were to tackle him soundly into the grass – we was lunching outside in the sun – and try to pull his choking, laughing head offn' his shoulders by the barnet.

 

Fred would add that this is unbrotherly competition and should be discouraged. But it happens naturally, I said. I reacted to how I felt, no thoughts. Fred said these actions should be restrained, and would be, naturally, if all our resources were doled equal. Trying to wrap my head round this drove me back to the bar sharpish. Fred is reet hard to argue with, and thus he is my inspiration when I'll shortly be showing Mr. Hall the right way to see things: mine. 


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

 

 

_Twelve Noon_

 

 

Hm, I'm sure I'm headed the right way – vaguely. Westward. Or have I been veering astray on these windy streets? Have made an effort to keep the river on my left – though it is a tiresomely meandering one. Still the very odd fixture looks familiar. My feet ache in my good shoes and my face itches with sweat and my stomach has lately decided to start moaning its protests in earnest about my having had nowt but jellies and fags all day; I begin training my eyes to the bars and eateries and ducking into a likely-looking pub, rousing, full of what seem to be dock workers, builders, factory girls, street sellers and more than a handful of plain old drunks.

 

Relaxing into the warm, beery, smoky, meaty air, I make my way to the W. C. first and foremost – a man must take pride in his lookin's, especially when there's women about! Oh Creeping Christ!! A quick peer into the looking-glass dismays me instant, as I learn that my lengthy walk through the city has done my already-rough appearance no favours; hair is wild and knotted under my cap, coat is ashy from fags, and shirt collar and lapels gone almost black – from what I don't know, it's like as if I were down the mines all night and day! It must be the smoke, the air thick with it, billowing constant causing coughing.

 

It's not this way at home. Thick fug puffing up from cramped, cozy tenements and pouring wholesale out of massive factory chimneys, and from autos, lamps and hot food stalls... It doesn't float away into the heavens, high, gone, harmless; it lingers between you and everyone and stings eyes and ruddies up clothes and stinks, stinks. Can't imagine Mr. Hall, refined and all as he is, ever associating with this kind of dirtiness, this squalor – likely he gets a cab everywhere or even drives a car himsel, or has one driven for him. Thinking about the yawning gap between us, money-wise and living-wise, is main uncomfy and I try to focus on our similarities. I'm stumped. I know only one thing we both enjoy doing.

 

Cheeks should redden at this thought but instead I've paled worrisome, quickly I wet my head at the sinks to clean my face and hair, and I bend over to scrub most of the horse-dung I slipped in off my shoe, before heading back out to the ruckus of the public, surreptitiously counting my coins, and approaching the bar, order me an ale, and a full English as above all I'm dead on me feet famished.

 

As I sup grateful on my ale and await my lunch, the smells of frying and baking and hissing and bubbling driving me mad, I hunch over the bar and try to act local and not as if I blew in like a dandelion clock straight from the deepest, muddiest depths of the countryside – true and all as it may be, that's exactly what I am, though I'm not sure what to try and look like otherwise, who to?

 

How exactly do I act, here, how to I put myself out? I'm in this posho suit, dusty and worse for wear as it may be, but I can't seem to feel comfortable in it as it, and everything around is so unfamiliar as to give me the shakes in my pint-hand, making it tricky not to spill and me all the more eager to get it down me, and another following quickly. * glug glug *

 

Feeling a little lost is all, or more.. not even here as I'm unacknowledged. Bit blurred around the edges maybe, as it were. A remnant. A ghost.

 

* wipes mouth on sleeve * What I'm driving at: I'm well oiled – er, I mean, I'm well _able_ to know how to talk and to be and to react and to josh about when it's the lads down the pub, or at work, or with the aul pair at home, but lately that's all been upended, I'm not the same, and now look at me, sat in a pub in deepest Tottenham surrounded by strange accents, miles from home!!

 

It's his doing. Him what done it on me, left me changed, changed utterly. Pulled the rug right from under me, he has, and then goes and does a runner! Yes, I know – flushing with embarrassment I am, and mighty glad no-one is privvy, I know – I'm well aware that I'm chasing him down for all the world like a persistent puppy, but this is the simple truth, I need to see him, it's just no good -

 

 

“Here y'are love!” Oh! Grouse!! Big steaming, greasy plate of meat and eggs plonked on the bar straight under my nose, _very_ nice indeed, mmm gonna get stuck in, grabbing the fork eager.

“Obliged to you miss,” I say, even though she's no gymslip lassie, and I even smile though I suppress, for the moment, the wink. One hunger at a time.

 

Oh Lordy, the _smell_ , didn't realize how starved I were until now! I launch straight in, spearing a sausage and practically swallowing it whole (watch it, you), then following with a big piece of black pudding lobbed into me gob, as the barmaid pushes the bread-basket towards me and lingers. My huge cheeked, egg yolky grin drops the glow from her face fairly fast I'm telling you, and she whirls off.

 

Sod propriety, and Ma who'd slap my hand could she see me, and – Maurice and all, who'd most likely be agog and aghast, I pick up the lamb chop with me fingers and chew on it ravenous, tearing the meat away. Fingers are the only way to go with a chop, best meat's closest to the bone after all! I like chewing on the bone after, gnawing on it like cos you can get every last morsel and it's reet tasty and crunchy and salty. Fred observes that it makes me look like a dog. He would! P'raps I'd better, all the same, not stoop quite that low here in terms of table manners – in public. Then again, I'm not am a table, am I – eh? Propping a bar, more like. Mind you, don't I want to show – which I meantersay – what did I say to Pete t'other night? (Most of which I don't remember..) - that I'm an example of – er – refinement.

 

Groping for a hankie in my pocket, I wipe my fingers and – whoops – chase a bit of grease gone right up to my wrist – and actually use a _fork_ to push the bread round the last pools of oil and brown sauce and egg yolk. Now for you, Maurice! Maybe you've more than a match in me!

 

Removing the plate, swabbed clean as it is, the barmaid smiles, “And how was that?”

 

Alec: “Awful, absolutely hated it,” and licking crumbs from my lips. Laughing, and with her free hand, she pours me another builder's tea, I encouraging her constant with the spoons of sugar, no, one more, keep going, that's the girl!

 

Beside me, the one conversation that I can manage to make out amidst the gale-like roar of talking and shouting and clattering and singing that fills the room has been increasing in pitch, fervour and volume continually; I'd been too focussed on filling my belly to clock, but now my ears awaken and hear the tall bloke with the blue kerchief on his neck and who _hasn't_ removed his hat, and reminds me forcibly, despite this, of Freddy, only _this_ bloke seems to be blustering and blowing about him and his mates getting _more_ money, and not necessarily then doling it out equal..

 

“It's just not ON fellas.. now, don't look on me that away! You saw yourselves how that brick nearly did for Henry! And not a word on it -”

 

“And the horses, Marky, they's getting more clapped out and agitated by the day. It's not safe down there!” Murmers of agreement follow this.

 

“Right you are O'Higgins! Yeh, this is hard, fellas, but who else is going to get theyselves splattered on the tracks by hooves? And sent down those caverns for all day and half the night? And tangling with them electrical wires – I don't care what the foreman spews out, I don't trust it, they seem dangerous. I don't care a fig for the running of the trains – for the schedules.. Deadlines, my eye, that's exactly what those tracks are! And who'll end up dead only US!”

 

“Jaysus, Marky, no, surely?”

 

“Sure and certain! But we're getting there lads, we're getting through, if we hold out _one_ more day, let them know what we're worth..”

 

“Och, another day this'll go on? I can't go home to the old lady and not have the housekeeping, it's not fair on her or the kiddies, and as for the rent for the landlord..!”

 

“The greater good my friend, greater good, a better gaff, a happier wife – would she rather be a widow all her life?!”

 

“What goes on?” I mutter to one of their number, a red-haired cove with startling grey eyes and rosy cheeks and a handful of change he just tossed out onto the bar.

 

“Oh,” says he, and twinkles a bit, “We's on strike.” Seems nervous but excited. And almost too young to be working – certainly to be goingunderground.

 

“How long?” asks I.

 

“Two weeks!” says he, and peering into the money he's collected into his palm.

 

“What's the terms?” I ask sleekly, affecting to be an expert on such matters. Well I picked up a term or two from Freddy's rants. Even when I tried to tune him out with the newspaper or yard chores or the wireless – some of it must've stuck!

 

“Well,” says the red-fellow, “We's working down near Highgate down in the Underground, doing repairs and that and carving out some new routes, like. Making places for the new electric, see.”

 

“I see.” I didn't.

 

Red, having supped, wipes his mouth and nods eager: “Ass'right, and so we's back-broken from trooping down stooping and hammering at the sides, and the horses can only bring the sleepers so far so we has to carry them a couple' mile, we was never told this initial and everyday some one of us done hisself and injury; with fallin' on the wet, or summit fallin' on him, or just getting wore out collapsible from all the carryin', and the bashing and carving and digging.”

 

Alec sets down his glass: “So you's are striking for better working conditions?”

 

Red: “No. An extra 2d a day.”

 

Alec: * lights fag wondrous *


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

 

Oh shit. Oh shite. Cannae believe my luck! Crackers. Here we are! The two of us! Really here! I can't hardly believe it. I daren't look round to see if he's still there with me. But I must -

 

Yes, he's there, standing a safe distance from me, not that he need bother with much properness and pretences in this place – but, no need to tell him that. Must be that he'd guess as much shadiness about a hotel that came upon my recommendation! Not been here in forever, since... Well donkey's years, it feels like now, me practically still in short trousers.

 

How a tall foreboding figure like his would have intimidated me so back then. Not now; now it's me leading him down the garden path and he coming willing. Hesitating a bit at the door though.. don't rush him, poor blighter. He's a night ahead of him, happen he wants to gather his wits a bit!

 

Nice enough to be able to admire him from over here, near the empty counter; I watch with my hands in my pockets as he very deliberately avoids my eye as he concentrates very hard on wiping his feet reet careful on the mat, shaking his umbrella before slowly removing his coat and folding it over his arm, as if the inevitable is put-offable. Fact is, we're both here because it's not, we're here because we want to be, because we want each other.

 

Fair entertaining, ain't he? Run out of things to tend to, he casts his gaze round at the walls, the ceiling, the worn carpet, coughs, looks up at me then. Oh God. I can feel my own reaction to those dark brown beautiful eyes pulsating through me instant.. Cheeks red with excitement and anticipation and fear – mirrored in he. Want to go over and hold him so badly but resist mightily. I know he wants it too, I know his body is, inside in his suit, twisting and contracting with the effort of withholding, wanting, waiting to kiss me.

 

Won him over at last, he's mine now for the taking.

 

With a nod and a small smile to impress upon him our agreement, he turns around, redder, as I swivel towards the reception desk as the hotel manager bustles down the stairs and round to tend to me, piles of bed sheets in one hand and a bucket of slop-water in the other, the second of which is thrown clanking onto the floor. Maurice is wincing, I can just _tell_ ; bet he's never been next to or near any kind of slop, much less been confronted with some at the lobby of a staying establishment!

 

Getting my snickers out of the way while the manager plops the sheets on the chair beside her and tucks some hair behind her ears as she pats the desk all over for searching for something. I lean one elbow beside the bell. “Alright?”

 

Looking up with a pen finally clasped, she: “Yes, can I help you?”

 

Smooth-like, I speak: “Yes, a double room please, for the night.”

 

Running a fingernail down the entry-book: “Alright, I can – yes, can give you a room on the third storey, if that'll suit..”

 

“Grand, thankee.”

 

“That'll be seven shillings ninepence, includes the towels now of course.”

 

Shit on a stick! This little jaunt is fair cleaning me out. I'll be stony broke by the time I set foot on the Argentine shores; no scratch that I'll likely be in debt at this rate and not able to call my pay-check my own for months! Why does money even have to exist anyway!! It might as well _not_ exsist for all I do see of it...

 

Wondering if she'd take a part-IOU, I slowly reach into my pocket for -

 

“Here you are, cash alright? Nothing smaller I'm afraid, if you've change.. Thank you.” Surprise, turning, Maurice is beside me and fumbling in his wallet. No raised eyebrows from the manageress although she lingers a look over the two of us before re-directing her focus to the money she's counting out of the till.

 

He's determined to pretend I'm not actually here right next to him as he pockets his change carefully, but I'm sure he can feel me radiate heat as I want to grab his lapels and bury my face into the front of his shirt. Well, I _shall_. Funny, should anyone else attempt to pay for something for me, particularly a man, and particularly a toff, I'd take grave exception and would register my refusal with me fists if need be, as a matter of pride. From Maurice though, I'd take anything, and to him give anything too. All I'm worth.

 

Disappearing again as the lady turns to get the key, though, he wanders back to lurk in the far side of the lobby, affecting to admire the paintings and green-tinged looking-glass and interesting spatters on the wallpaper. Keys are handed over to me with a wink. Surely she don't recognize me?! No.. it were years ago, way back in the mists of time. I weren't half the man I am now; and I feel twice the man I done this morning! Chuckling and scurrying off again with her bedsheets, I feel it's safe for me to acknowledge my association with Maurice.

 

Approaching him cautious, but with a determined eye-lock that shows I mean business, I pocket the keys brisk and nod softly at the stairs. “Right, let's go, sir,” I mean to say confident commanding, but it comes out as a whispered secret, oh, hopefully not a plea..

 

Surprisingly, he doesn't trail behind – or indeed, race like the clappers out the front door – but walks beside me as we climb the stairwell. It's so obvious that we have no luggage and that we don't seem business-men – me, anyway, nor holiday-makers. But a place like this is used to that kind of thing, those kinds of people – well, _us_ , I suppose. No 'those' about it.

 

The stairs are carpeted but the odd one creaks, and as we trudge heavenwards my brows remain raised that Maurice is still keeping so very close to me; once or twice I even feel his hand gently on my back just above my waist, though when I look behind he quickly removes it. True, we _did_ get pretty cozy when we was having that blazing row just now in the park by the railings, especially when we both decided that we were for each other and just sort of..clung on, side by side, until we reached the bus station I directed us towards and Maurice balked at the very sight of it and hailed a cab. He even squeezed my arm before opening the door for me to clamber inside.

 

Hotel seemed to knock his confidence somewhat, dilute some of the blush from his face, and I were still mighty afeared that he'd just away and bolt – another reason I wanted so badly to hold his hand.

 

Still he's by me, although his usual stride I found so recognizable in the gardens of Penge is now replaced by a more cowed step, to keep in time with my deliberately unhurried gait. I _want_ to bound up the steps three at a time as I do on the regular at home and, as Ma says, nearly reduce the house to dust and matchsticks; but to be fair and frank with you I'm not altogether certain what _will_ happen when we're up in that room. I know we need to talk some more, but I know that – the longings will overtake that, and I'm not sure how far we'll go, we'll get, he's so.. unsure and malleable in my hands, the responsibility is heady but a little scary – even the lasses I've been with in my time have had at least some measure of experience and intuition in under-petticoat matters.

 

Or drawers, in this case.

 

But here we are – number 202, 203... I walk forward neatly, almost _hoping_ that some other guest or worker or the King himself will poke their head out a door and see me with my prize, my feller. This is _great_. I'm back in the driving seat, he's right back in my thrall just like when we was in that orange room. Yes! Tripping along the landing, I feel light as a feather; quite the opposite of my lover whose shoulders hunch with every door, every stranger we pass: yet I doff my cap to the maids and business-men and working-men and shady-looking characters and prozzies. I suppose he _is_ rather a sore thumb, but still..

 

“Really, sir, must you be so obvious? I'd've thought you'd rather we be discreet,” elbowing him playful. Now that there's the threat of eye-witnesses, he dodges away from me like I'm on fire! Never mind, never mind. Expectable though. Tsk tsk sir, all the same. We'll see if you're so allergic to me in the private cozy confines of a bedroom.

 

I stop in a door-way – our door-way – number 217. I lean one elbow head-level and rest my jaw on my palm, t'other hand in me pocket, still. He stops and eyes me wearily – as well he might, for my careful posture serves the double purpose of blocking the doorway – oo, he better know that, he's got to _fight_ to get me, he's got to want it, to _show_ he wants me – plus I'm showing off my body to him, shameless, prideful. Right, I know this suit is a bit tight, around the chest and belly the waistcoat strains, and the jacket refuses to do up at least two of the buttons; I did mention Ma has been fattening me up just in case the only thing to eat on the long journey is weevils in ship biscuits! And she knows I prefer cake!!

 

But Maurice stares at me, his face flushed in a new way en _tire_ ly, his eyes a-hunger and his shoulders drop helpless, and he reaches, impulsive, almost unbeknownst, a hand towards me – not to any especial body-part, just me – and as soon as he does this he attempts to retract that hand quickly – _oh_ no sir – I snatch it lightning-quick in my own hand – and – as if by the basest and most sensible and fluid flowing forward of nature – raise it to my lips and kiss, soft, his hairy knuckles.

 

He's fit to burst, seems to be brimful of much more blood than he done before – in his face and his neck and his hand even, burning up!

 

“Come on,” I whisper, “Come in.” And I turn the handle of the door and step aside to let him enter before me, getting a good appreciative eyeful of the rear-view as he passes me. Following him in, the carpet feels marginally softer underfoot, and I swing the creaky door shut before locking it carefully. Turning round slowly, I'm presented with his back, his hands in his pockets, his hat and jacket and umbrella stubbornly clasped in his grip. Placing the key on the wobbly table beside the door, I step over to that tall, dark, handsome figure that has been haunting my dreams and bothering my waking hours absolutely non-stop. Smells so clean and good it's as if his very presence, his existence, whatever glows about him draws me closer. Oh Maurice. He turns to look at back at me eyes liquid: _Oh Alec._

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends and comrades! Let us arise and go now, to the future, to the freedom that is always and ever our infant country's august destiny! 
> 
> Liberté, égalité, fraternité, soroité!
> 
> Vote YES I said YES I will YES

Chapter 25

 

Well. Staring at each other thus is reet nice and romantic and all, but we haven't got all night, have we? Or, actually, we do, paid for – I think – but I mean.. we's here for a reason, right? He.. don't seem inclined to rip my clothes off and pin me to that there bed, now does he. Turning his hat around and around in his vice grip. To jog him a little, I take off my own coat, only that seems to make him even more nervous! Tossing it on the bed, I stretch my arms above my head.

 

“Nice place, ain't it? Now, there's places more private than this, or -” Shit! “ - or so I've heard tell from the lads.. or, overheard down the pub like.. But as I say, they's sneakier but I didn't think it'd suit you.. this is right fancy enough – well, not like you're used to – but does the job – don't it? I mean, _I'm_ happy enough with it, sure, fits me well, although you – er..”

 

Drat and dag and damnation, now _I'm_ the one spewing me nerves ten ways from Sunday, but unlike him I don't have the dignity to keep me trap shut, and he seems to have regained some of his austerity as I burble myself into a sodding mess. Unwise of me to go on and on about how I'm at home in a right plain but practical place like this, like a pig in muck, while he's more used to carved mahogany and doilies under teacups and pillows stuffed with down from university-educated ducks -!

 

“It's a fine place, just perfect, thank you I.. just wanted to -” here he trembles a little as I look on, “to be alone with you. Always. I mean, anywhere. Anyway...” That slow, deep, soothing voice trails off, like the last mouthful of whiskey sliding down your throat. And you want more.

 

I grin slowly, hands on my hips. “Well, here we are sir. Not anywhere, but right here. Door's locked.. nothing can trouble us. I _told_ you we'd find a way..”

 

“Mm.. took us long enough,” he actually cracks! Putting down his coat on the back of a chair with the hat on the seat.

 

Laughing in surprise, I also expel a disbelieving spluttering noise. I like that 'us'!! As if I weren't the one doing all of the chasing and him the one throwing a spanner in the works when we've barely even _started_.. But I think maybe I were a bit ham-fisted about communicating my intentions to him. Look at this: me taking the blame for everything rather than think even one bad thing about him. So beautiful to look at and so.. lovely to listen..

 

“Alec, I'm sorry about, about your letters, I mean – not sorry you sent them but I wasn't quite ready to -”

 

“Are you ready now?” Stepping close, I slide my hand from his stomach slowly up his chest, to his tie-knot that I pull very softly as I look up saucily into his eyes. Never have I ever been in the love-position where I'm the leading, coaxing, confident one and yet the smaller one in stature. Wonder if he can take me seriously, manfully, and me three inches shorter? Perhaps so. His thumping heart answers my question and on tip toes, I tilt my head, he automatically tilting his to accommodate; sliding his hands round my waist, I do likewise round his shoulders and chest to chest pressed thus our lips meet, so so barely and softly at first, like testing how hot the handle of the kettle is before you grab it, and then he's gone, or moved, and he just slides his lips away, cheek against mine, holding me close, I can feel his eyelashes closing against my temple, his breath coming in slow gasps against my ear.

 

Nuzzling his neck, I like this position a lot. Clung like tree roots about each other, all eyes closed, we rock gently, hands doing nothing more naughty than gently caress parts of back. About squeezing the life out of me, he is, and in fact I've been so overcome by his sweetness and the pure, inexplicable happiness he awakens in me that I'm even momentarily distracted in the trouser department.

 

Momentarily.

 

Come on. Hear me out! _You_ try having a fella like Maurice a clung onto you like a vine around a pillar, and not have any dick-related, as well as visceral, reaction. Say you wouldn't and I call you a liar, son. But there again there's no one who's been in my shoes, he's an untapped well – well only slightly tapped by me myself and I'm no fool, going to squeeze every last ounce of pleasure out of him – leave him gasping and shaking his head for years to come when he remembers this night sudden whilst reading the paper, picking a bloomer for the buttonhole, drifting off to the sermon, he feels my hardness against his -

 

“Alec,” and I wouldn't have heard that if it weren't directly into my ear, like the merest of spring breezes.

 

There is, I've found, a certain amount of – stretching out moments, of not rushing, of – choreography to really wonderful nights of loving. Only in reflection do you realize just how much more satisfying it is to work slowly towards your goal, rather than jump behind the bike sheds for a quickie. I know what _I_ prefer. And though this is already a memorable night – the absolute best of my life – I want to make it just as perfect as possible so I can put it my pocket, take it to the Argentine wi'me, take it out and see it at my leisure, whenever things go wrong... I'll make it so. With an extra hard clasp of my arms around his shoulders that makes him gasp and laugh, I release Maurice and walk backwards to the bed.

 

Plonking myself on the edge of the mattress, I lean forward and start un-tying my shoelaces. Watching me for a moment, Maurice then comes over, sinks the mattress to my right as he sits beside me, reaches for his feet and starts to do likewise.

 

Performing such a routine personal task in the midst of our strange mutual passion tickles me, and I feel him too, both smiling and frowning as he struggles with a knot.

 

“Wouldn't want to get the sheets dirty, now would we?” I say, gaily kicking my kickers off.

 

Maurice merely raises his eyebrows at me. Would we? “Oi! Cheeky bastard!” I shove him, and feel myself flood with warmth and excitement. How could I have foreseen that I could not just hold him, touch him, take him to bed, but get to josh about with him, have a laugh and a giggle, and him appearing so serious and sonorous initial?

 

Tossing his own shoes towards the un-lit fireplace, Maurice turns to face me with an open, youthful, hopeful expression on his gorgeous face. Now we're sat side-by-side, shoulder to shoulder, like on a park bench or the edge of a lake or a pleasure ride at Blackpool pier, and chuckling a little nervously with anticipation and mutual (I hope) beguilement.

 

Bouncing myself back more fully onto the centre of the bed, I fold my legs Indian-style and beckon him. “C'mere. Might as well make full use of the facilities!”

 

“Ha, ha,” says he, kindly, and swinging his long legs, still in their carefully ironed trousers, up onto the bed, he crawls towards me a little awkwardly and kneels in front of me facing me, hands resting restlessly on his thighs a _lot_ awkwardly.

 

I merely have to lean forward suggestively, and he copies me eager, bumping my cheekbone with his nose, I capturing his lips before he can stammer in embarrassment or apologize or cast his eyes downwards. His eyelids flutter brief before slowly, blissfully drifting closed, mine following likewise.

 

It's so easy, so natural, just like we was mere boys with no knowledge of right and wrong and acceptable or no – I'd be hard pressed to tell up from down just at this moment to be confidential with you, so soft and yielding and delicious are his lips, how untrained but enthusiastic is his tongue.

 

Both of us leaned towards each other but our bodies remain sat primly apart, me with me arms dangling on my crossed knees, he with his slowly loosening fists on his legs. It's like we're just trying it out, this kissing lark, to see if'n we like it, no pressure, no massive burdens of guilt or judgement or impropriety or social ramificating. Plain to tell that we _do_ like it, it's so intimate and yet so innocent, I still don't feel the overwhelming urge to dive headlong into the panting, pumping, strong and slimy sexual segment of our brief encounter.

 

All's we're doing is kissing, kissing, forever and ever, soft and beautiful, puffs of air coming out noses, very quiet moans at backs of throats, his fringe wisping across my forehead and mine across his no doubt, I rub my lips against his, I open my mouth wide and slide my tongue against his, and I slowly close my mouth and in doing so close his, we share a quick peck with a small smacking noise before sliding each others' mouth slowly open again. Over and over we do this, more and more I need it.

 

But eventually we have to break away, to gasp for breath and to lick our wet lips, almost numb from crushing use now, and I reach over and rest my hands over his, on his legs. Instinctive, he is blocking me from what is _very_ evident between his legs, and I am assured to know that I were right to take things slow, slow as Christmas.

 

Still! There's slow and there's _stop_ , and that's one thing neither of us want doing, particular as the candle's burning and the night will pass no matter what we do, so we better do just what we both been wanting! I know, I oscillate in my attentions – that's what Borenius tells me. I think he meant to imply that I'm scatty and distracted, oh but if you could _see,_ Reverend, how single-mindedly determined and ambitious I am right now!

 

Patiently, Maurice watches me fumbling with his shirt buttons – his waistcoat slipped off easy enough, but this is all – stiff – dammit – right – I start to chew on the buttons at his collar – that's how we get them to go _in_ , when we used to be packed into good shirts and trousers for the headmistress' birthday at school, or St. Andrew's day, or the visit of some half-way distinguished alumnus.

 

“Ha, be careful, Alec, oh, your teeth! I know, they're dashed annoying,” and he starts attacking the buttons himself, with not much more success.

 

“You likely have a man to do this for you, sir,” I say, tackling his top button, laughing as I bump hands with his. He smiles at this, but says, “No, I've no man.”

 

Alec, head tilted, looks at him side-long: “Well...”

 

Maurice: “And don't call me sir! I'm not one of His Majesty's OBEs.”

 

“I say, you could've fooled me, old sport!” I tease in my plummiest accent I most probably heard in the vaudevilles, rather than at Penge; and he grabs my foot and tickles it, I'm _fierce_ ticklish so I roar the place down. Then his hands travel up my legs and I grow hopeful, but he by-passes the Top Prize and sets himself to struggling with _my_ shirt-buttons, difficult as they strain so.

 

I try to hold my breath to seem any ways thinner – oh why always the extra helping of pudding after dinner? It's Ma's fault for being such a reet fantastic cooker. But Maurice is only getting more and more frantic and panty as he manages to loosen several buttons and then rips my shirt out from my pants, yanks my braces off my shoulders and soon they and the shirt are sailing onto the chest-of-drawers by the window, and I'm left struggling for air, tilting my head back with my eyes closed as he rubs his face all over my neck, and chest, and belly, and, oh, chest again, mmmm.... and he starts to kissing, quick pecks all over me and then suddenly licks, sucks, bites, moans, me moaning, and I rock forward to grab his shoulders and finally wrench his shirt from him leaving it careless on the blanket.

 

Oh those big, strong, slightly spotted shoulders! Never have I seen them naked yet I'd imagined a thousand times in the space of a short week – I dip my head and sink my teeth into his neck, digging my fingers so deep into his left shoulder and his right bicep that I'd draw blood from him, had I nails that weren't bitten down to nubs.

 

Inhaling sharply through clasped teeth with the pain, Maurice all the same shoves my face forcefully to his neck, more, more he wants and I comply greedily, scraping my teeth along the same spot over and over before soothing with a long, thick lick of my tongue and small kisses before suckling on the same skin again. I plan to cover his body with marks this way. So he'll tingle for days and remember.

 

Writhing, Maurice curls up into a ball clung into me with the persistence of my teeth and my hands roaming all over his back and arms. I feel him whimper when I reach down to grab his arse in both of my hands and – _here_ we go – heave him bodily towards me till he's sitting in my lap, his legs splayed either side of my waist and his arms clung round my neck helplessly, and his head bowed down, hair everywhere and cheeks flushed, and I tilt my head way back – he really is very tall, or from this position, _long,_ his chin is level with my eyebrows _–_ and I gaze up into his eyes lovingly before sliding my hands from his bottom all the way up his spine to the crown of his head where I rake those tresses; and I kissing along his jaw, whispering, “There's a good boy, now -” I had gotten a good reaction out of him last time with this kind of coddling, it made him all the more receptive and wanting – like this! - he melts against me like butter on toast. Long, luxurious, gibberingly relieved sighs.

 

Ah – mm, I _had_ been wondering, given how he is, in this state, and what he said about not having much experience – or any, God love him – whether he'd have any idea at all about – well, what more we could get up to together, just what kind of sporting endeavours we could try in this here bed.

 

Pure as driven snow, that was the impression I'd gotten – but he must have some idea, the way he's got his legs circling round me waist so tight now, and his arms round my shoulders so squeezing he's practically wrapped 'em round tight! - and him rocking, rocking again' me over and over, I can feel his hardness against my stomach, and most likely he can feel mine pressing over and over against his arse, he must like it so, as much as I do, as he increases his speed almost desperately and I manage to extract my face from his shoulder and instruct him, “Slow down,” because you want to take your time over these things, to fully appreciate them.

 

Like I don't like to skull a pint like the other lads after a hard day's work, I'd rather nurse it over a fag or two and some chirpy banter. Same can be said for a loving encounter such as this – alright, I _have_ been knowed to nip down an alley or abroad in a shed above on some hay-bales for a quickie – but that's more out of sheer needful, don't mean anything. I never did it hard and fast with a girl – they needs their time.

 

And you do too, when you's with a lassie, for to cherish every little nook and cranny that you don't yourself have and seem so mysterious and cosseted and worthy when they's tucked behind aprons and dresses and pinafores and petticoats and demure, interlaced fingers and prim, twitching little walks. Why does Maurice have a similar effect upon me, one of – of enchantment, and protectiveness, and warm, pure affection – and he as big and strong and chiselled as he is?

 

His hair, a little long, I should think, for the City, is in complete disarray, it flops about as he plants firm kisses along my forehead and eyebrows and down my cheeks to my ears; I reach up and thread it between my fingers some more before grabbing a lock and gently pulling it, pulling his head backwards so I can dive forward and attach my mouth to his neck once more, right at the sensitive part under the edge of the jawbone.

 

“ _Urgh_ ,” he grunts beautifully, eyes squeezed shut; and I push his shirt aside to trail my fingernails down his chest to his left nipple and I flick past it experimentally, just to see if he'd like it.

Thrashing his legs, whimpering and about skinning my back with his own nails, I reckon he does!

 

Right then. I twist my position a bit more stable in the bed, leaning back on the headboard, so he can sit comfy in my lap without my having to hold his hips, and he responds in kind, wriggling his arse down between my knees. Resting his hands more gentle on my shoulders, he gazes down at his chest that I'm caressing, circling those circles with both hands while I myself am gazing into those addictive bally brown eyes. Tongue between my teeth with concentration, I take hold of both of his tits between a main finger and thumb and pull gently, once, twice, then over and over.

 

“Oh, _God,_ Alec!!” he gasps, and he shakes his head, begging, “Please. _Please!_ Oh, please..”

 

“Aren't yer polite! Please what, sir? Please stop? Or..” and I pull those hard, red little points again, twisting then between my fingertips but being careful not to pain him. No, don't want to hurt him – unless he wants me to.

 

“No!! Don't stop, I – I like it, just -” and he grabs the top of the headboard behind me, his elbows either sides of my ears, so he's displaying himself totally but at the same time - “Alec. Just..”

 

I know exactly what's going on through that beautiful head of his. Because he's saying things I've often _felt_ in the moment, only I'd never let on, for fear of coming across as wet: he's just overwhelmed with the feeling of it, the intensity, how it feels so damn pleasurable, more so than he's used to in a month of Sundays, he wants it, only he wants it gradual, just like I'd thought.

 

“It's alright, Maurice,” I say into his chest, lips pressed against the hairs, gazing up at him sideways. My hands have slid down to his still-trousered hips again. “I know it's a bit much..Just teasing!”

 

He smiles uncertainly and I aim for his oxter. “After all I know you's ticklish..”

 

“ARGGHH!” he howls, collapsing onto his back beside me.

 

Whipping myself on top of him sharpish I feel a momentary urge to wrestle him into a hold – must be some kind of basic instinct! But I can control that easily upon seeing the love-look on his face as from the pillow he faces me facing him down.

 

Instead, I play with his hair again, and he smiles lazily and reaches up with two hands to capture my jaws and brings me down for a kiss. Heaven, where does it go, where does it end?

 

So I shelve the _very_ naughty intentions I'd been having. For now. Seems like I should tell him so and all, it's not fair for me to have all the plans secreted up to dole out while he waits expectant, even if I was the one who strong-armed him into this hotel.

 

“Aren't these reet confining?” I say, tugging at the waistband of his work slacks. “You wouldn't wear them to bed general, surely?” Hopefully I grin down at him, still stroking his fringe back from his brow.

 

“You've got just as many clothes on as me,” says he, eyes twinkling.

 

“Hmm,” and I give him a quick bob of my eyebrows, and oh to my delight he puts his arms right round me in a hug, running his hands down my back to slide into the back of my britches, one hand per cheek, as it were, and then he travels round to the front of my pants so I rise up a little eager to give him room, looking at his face stupidly hopeful! - but he is concentrating fully on undoing my pants, and then he does do, and lowers them down a bit, with my help, just to my knees, and he ghosts his fingers back up my thighs and over my rear gently, quizzically, finally meeting my eyes – then my heart about beats out of my chest as he eases his hand between us and into my rather threadbare cotton drawers, past my thick patch of curly hairs and touching my hot hard prick with no hesitation at all. I'm loving it, _loving_ him as I pant with the pleasure.

 

Gasping with soft relief and fresh, sharp excitement, I bang my forehead a little too hard on his temple but he doesn't stop, keeps caressing, so warm and constant, his left hand squeezing my arse cheek also. My knuckles are practically white with clutching the pillow either side of his ears, and he glances to the side of him, and says, “Grab me, not the pillow,” and so I do, heave him up into my arms and pant as he takes me in hand properly and pumps, and I rutting into him with wild and wayward abandon, bed creaking.

 

Throwing his head back, he keeps, keeps tugging at me; we've changed positions entirely, me straddling his lap now and no unhappier for it. Demanding a kiss with his eyes, I can just tell, and I swoop down and lock lips with him, yanking down his shirt off his shoulders where it was just about hanging on, what with all the moving about we been at. Excited, I press back on his lap a time or two, thinking, maybe he wants to – with me in this position? But am I ready? Shivering, I just cling to him, trying to work out if I'll go along with it if he does whip his lad out and pull me down upon it. Sure, know what to do but -

 

“Hang about, Alec, I want to see – see your, you -” and his free hand is pushing me backwards, or rather moving me to a better angle and position so he can see the head of my dick appearing between his clasped fingers before disappearing back in, over and over, he is mesmerised, and I rather am too, though I've seen my dick in this state rather more times than I've had hot dinners – not with _him_ _though._

 

“Cripes!” I wail as he gets faster and connects his face to mine, his jawline slightly stubbly, it's wet, so wet between us, don't know what it is, must be sweat, and he is right about to clamp on for another kissing session when I GROOOANNN right into his face, his mouth, I've blown it out and it was – was about a thousand times better than any time on my own, or any other time I can think of and he panting and I panting, struggling to breathe normal, eyes closed, and I open then expecting to see him looking down at his handiwork, well my work all over his hand, but he's gazing careful into my face, as if checking for a reaction. More of a reaction than what I just done? Fuck.

 

“Fuck,” I explete, and my shoulders droop with exhaustion and deep relief and lovely tiredness, and I put my arms weakly around his shoulders and hug him to me, resting my chin on his head and he nuzzles into my neck. His heart hammers against my chest as if it were he who'd come. So satisfied and sated is he that he might as well have done. Right here in this bed it's difficult to tell the difference between who's doing what, we are just a pleasure bundle between us and it matters not that we are two, out there in the world, right here we're wrapped together to make one sweaty, hot mess, propped against the headboard, tangled in the sheets.

 

Maurice wipes my ejaculate onto his pants; I watch this in wonder.

 

“You know you've -” I start to say, but he looks at me a little sharply, and I understand that he don't want to talk about, no, nor think on neither, the next day when we have to leave our little nest, about when we have to do ourselves up to tally with our respective spheres and separate. He would like to think on never needing these pants ever again! Oh how did someone so sweet and childishly hopeful get even this far in the world? All the way to – to Cambridge, and the City, and all the manful responsibilities and expectations that they demand and create?

 

Changing tack, I allow myself to slide further into the circle his parted knees have created, and keep my hands on his neck and sigh. “That was – just, absolutely top, Maurice.” He smiles, wide, bashful but pleased. “You's well practised – hey?”

 

He stammers. “What? No, I -”

 

I chuckle. “I mean on yourself, mate.”

 

“Oh, well.. really, I don't much. It was always too confusing to know what to think about..” Or what you feel you _should_ be thinking about, I interpret silently. Poor fella. The Church or Society or whomsoever really done a number on him, didn't they? And crushed his natural though unusual wantings, what a shame on him. Well, he has me now. For now.

 

“Not much, hey? So when did you last do it? Show yourself a bit of a good time? Hey?” I'm teasing hell out of him now though I am curious too. Need to know more about this man. I don't even know what his job is but I want to get to know all about his intimacies.

 

Propping my elbows on his knees, I lean on my hands and aim to hassle him crazy, I'm in such good form – this right upright gentleman, what you see striding round Penge in a dinner suit smoking moodily, and discussing morals and such with the Durhams, and stalking about London out to lunch after having spent the morning doing God knows what in some ornately carved office building – he just wanked me off. To the badness of the world, I'm untouchable!

 

“Not in a while,” he says, stiffly. Stiffly! I know not to push the subject though. You get further with coercion and waiting than all guns blazing. There's a top hunting tip, oh me: I give myself very good advice but I very seldom follow it!

 

Moving a little so as not to put too much weight on his legs, not that he'd ever object: “Well, crying shame that, seeing as how you're so talented at it.” Easing this tease I ruffle his hair, and he smiles sudden, grabs my hand and pulls me tumbling back on top of him and he rolls me round till we're comfy wrapped round each other, his head tucked in under my chin, his body pressed against mine and one still-socked foot of his pushed in between mine where we rubs toes.

 

Stroking my side lazy-like, from nip to hip and back again, he: “Your skin is so soft.”

 

I run my hands over his shoulders in my own appreciative-ness. “Yours is like silk.” Cannae help but titter; I _love_ this daftness after some bouncing around in the sack. It's almost better than sex. ALMOST.

 

Alec: “My skin won't be soft much longer; Ayres says, once I've had a few months proper working behind me in the Argentine!” I chuckle. Maurice is silent.

 

I try again. “Although, maybe sooner'n that. If Freddy finds out I've snuck off to London like I done today, spending his well-wishes on train tickets and wine gums and what have you, he'll likely tan my hide for me his'sel!”

 

Maurice: “Freddy?”

 

A: “Aye, my brother. Well, one of 'em. He's got oh, only... seven year on me but you'd think he were more me dad's vintage with his way of going on – well!”

 

M: “I should have liked a brother.”

 

A: “Ain't you got any then?”

 

M: “ No. And I ... always felt – feel – somewhat ill-fitting in the domesticity of my house – well, Mamma's house. Like I don't belong there, truly. But where else? It _is_ my home..”

 

That warrants a squeeze. So I do so, pressing him to me, he sighs and tucks his arm around my waist in kind.

 

A: “So who's in the house apart from your good self?”

 

M: “Mm.. mother, my sisters. Kitty and Ada, and Aunt Ida.. any number of Kitty's friends from school ... the cook, the maids..”

 

A: “My word! Too many chiefs and not enough Indians, is that it?”

 

M – er, Maurice, looks up at me and smiles quizzical..?

 

A: “I mean it is a bit of a rum thing, int it, to live that way all the time. Amongst women.”

 

M: “Mm.”

 

A: “Ain't there any footmen? Butlers? Handymen or – gardeners, even? They might liven up the landscape for you!”

 

M: “Alec!”

 

Whoops.. seem to have touched a nerve. Well, I _have_ touched everything else, ha! Ha! Almost..

 

A: “So go on.. what are they like, your family.”

 

Maurice seems surprised, but after a moment or two acquiesces: “Sensible. In the utmost. Well, mother and Kitty, at any rate. Ada is more of a – what did the nanny call her? Flibbertigibbet. Cotton-head, Kitty used to call her! Just for being rather removed, and dreamy, and dashed unserious..”

 

A: “Awe, sounds nice!”

 

Tension floods Maurice's shoulders and he turns an inch or two away from me, but I make sure he can't escape my embrace by clinging on a bit tighter. You can't escape me sir! I told you, I told you!

 

M: “Yes, nice... but full of fluff. Latest thing, she rather fancies herself part of the suffragette movement – only for having sewn some of the sashes and distributed some literature! Still too cowed by mother to actually go and march.. it's all a nonsense anyway..”

 

Hang about! My interest has been peaked. “Oh she's for some social changing, is she? Joined a movement, has she? I know all about it, son. Ee, but you're right, a lot of it is a right palaver, like Old Freddy I were just mentioning, sweating bullets over getting labourers more wages and that. Did you ever! Surely more wages means that you has to work all the more hours to earn 'em? And who wants that? Lads spend half their lives dotted all over the fields or down those drippy mines as it is! A right snipe hunt, you ask me, and no mistake. Mind you, there are some movements that's a bit more practical and worthy – mate of mine, Davey, he and his brother, back in Ireland and used to live in a little village – or well, if they even have villages over there, maybe more a bunch of huts in the same field – they formed a group what goes around putting thatch on fire and intimidating rates collectors and chasing sheep around at night. Davey said it were reet fun and important – well, until he got himsel' a job, ploughing, and he must've gotten a taste for the workin' cos when that ended he upped sticks, hopped on the boat over here and started at Penge.. He don't go much for the night time raids now, he needs his sleep he says, no more'n the rest of us! Still...”

 

...I've forgotten the point of my story, if even there was one, but it did feel exciting talking about Davey to someone who don't already know him, or isn't him _himsel',_ and I wonder just how much of my life and secrets I would spill into Maurice if we were to talk _all_ night. I somehow think we shan't..

 

M: “You never.. participated in these practices? Pillaging, sort of thing?”

 

A: “Pillaging! Ha! Ha! Oh Maurice. You must think anyone who don't wear a suit to work – and a different one to dinner – is living firm in the Dark Ages.” He hides his blushes into my chest.

 

I add, “Yer, I've knowed some lads who dallied with a movement or two. But the trouble is, all this larking about at night, roaring, fighting, drinking – there's never any girls and just seems like fellas trying to out-do each other. Gets right boring after a night or two.”

 

Oh dear. Not a popular one. Maurice avoids my eyes a little huffily and rolls over completely, facing away from me, on his side, towards the door. He can't bring himself to leave the bed, or even pull his body away from mine... Ah here, though. This isn't on.

 

Looking at the back of his lovely head, I feel wrong-footed for the first time since we come to the hotel. All _day_ I were of course – not a foot put right till I won the argument outside the Museum! But now.. I know where I can shift the power back to myself.

 

Aligning myself behind him, facing his back, I wrap my left arm round he and reach down to the front of his slacks, at the same time sending him totally disconcerting by pressing my crotch into the seat of his pants and dotting little kisses on his shoulder blades. Arching back into me, he automatically props himself up on an elbow so's I can reach my right hand easily between his flank and the bed and undo his belt properly, managing this quickly and pushing the pants down, down all the way to his ankles where I pinch his socks at his toes and pull them off also. All piled onto the floor, the neatly pressed way they started the day in all spoiled and forgotten.

 

 _Aaaahh_ this is just absolute heaven, alright, I can't see his face still, us both on our right-sides, but this is the first time ever I've gotten him stark naked, such a sight and every hot inch of his body available and welcoming my roaming fingers. Up his stomach to his chest, and over his face where he kisses my fingertips, and back down his side and back up his arm... back down and over his hairy belly, dipping lower, loving the feel of that coarse curly hair as I thread it and tug it gently, and by-passing, deftly, I make for his balls and I circle the flat of my palm over the warm, malleable softness, Maurice pants out what might be my name, or might be his throat clicking as he struggles to breathe, and I pluck at one nut and then the next one, before finally, walking my fingers up his big, hard prick playful, from the base to the tip where I _finally_ make a circle with my main finger and thumb and with immense relief coursing through both of us, push the ring of my fingers down his shaft experimentally. Feels so warm and right and natural, yet dirty and exciting and illicit too; like one of those stories you read in the mucky papers.

 

Gasping he is, eyes clenched – ignore me, will you sir? Turn your back and snub? We shall see. I use my right hand to finagle my own dick free from between me legs and ease it into his crack, not near the centre, his little hole, yet, but just pressed comfortable between those beautiful cheeks, the tip nudging his balls. Quivering, he is, grabbing the bedside locker to push back against me wholesale. Steady on!! Continuing to wank at him with gusto, I inch my face over to his so my lips tickle his ear.

 

“You naughty thing, enjoying it so... aren't you ashamed?” I say in my huskiest tones; I don't actually want him to feel ashamed, do I heck is like! He might high-tail it out the door to the nearest confessional-box; Aye, so horrified at his moral lapsing that he crosses over to the left-footers! I just know it'll get him even more excited, and it does so, him letting out low, sexy moans and I keep grinding, oh GOD how much better this feels naked, especially now I can feel his arse press rhythmically against my stomach and lap and dick, _back_ and forward, _back_ and forward, Christ, how much can one man _take_?!

 

Faster faster and my grip on his prick is slackening as sweat pours out of me, overwhelmed with that circling motion of his hips, him pushing mightily with his arms against the locker so as to force himself back against with me with all the strength he can muster, and he arches himself forward so that I can see his whole back, and his arse still pumping, smacking, wobbling, again and again and again and again, and it's so – he's so – _fuck_ – _shit_ – is this a hint and a half? Could it be that he really wants me to –

 

Fuck-it! He wants it! He _must_ do! I said to myself we'd go at his pace – if he wants to go steamrollering at it then far be it for me – good thing I came prepared!!

 

Plucking my soaking body away from Maurice's – just for an instant! I gather my wits a bit. Rolling rapid back towards the right edge of the bed, I spring towards my discarded clothes, hunker down and paw through them rapidly, where are they, where _are they..._

 

AHA! I leap back up to standing, turning round to face an eyebrow-raising Maurice, who's looking over his shoulder incredulous (generously keeping his lovely behind in full and flagrant view):

 

“Alec, darling...?”

 

I grin at him as I extract them from my inside pocket and he turns around fully, pulling himself up sitting and coming closer to my side of the bed. “What have you got?”

“Ha ha, _you_ know, just a little something for the weekend! We'll not let on that it's a Tuesday,” and I wink at him, before turning to the lamp beside the window for better light, a-fiddling with the little – come on, open, damn you, I cannae last all night -

 

“What?”

 

“Oh. It's a john- ah, I mean, it's a preventative. Y'know.. helps stop – diseases and that. No joke they are – not that I've had them! Or – not that I'm saying you do! Just want to be sure, to be safe, I'd hate to harm you.. though I use them regular, I do get a little tipsy oftentimes -”

 

“Oh – I see.”

 

“Yeah, a fella showed me an address where to get 'em – here in London of course - cor _blimey_ you'd not see them back on Osmington! Not unless you knew who to ask out the smoking area of the Honeychurch.. and then there's no saying they's genuine.. nah.. get 'em here. So – got them from some Russian-sounding bloke what has a shop down Soho with all kinds of mad caper in it – dirty pictures, clothes, you can imagine – but I only stopped in for these! Dodgy places them, but needs must you know! And the shopkeep – right shady seeming character, almost seems to be a bit _too_ careless about his dealings – wouldn't surprise me if – being foreign and all – well, anyroad!” And at this point (!) I've managed to get myself good and sheathed, as I say, for _his_ protection more'n mine, what gripe would he have, the shy little strumpet – oh.

 

Oh dear. Oh Maurice. Sir.

 

Reminding me of a fox I cornered a couple of weeks ago in the corner of the horse-yard, eyeing my gun petrified, as well he might, bastard I were sure were the one pinching all the chickens night after night, Maurice stares wide-eyed at my protected, protruding, ready-to-go hard-on, and he sitting facing me, leaning on his hands, naked, frozen. His legs are apart but trembling; his feet dangle off the edge of the mattress and I feel myself wilt slightly in almost painful sympathy. Instantly I drop to my knees, not even thinking of what I'm doing before I do it, cross the short distance over to him, grasp his hips, drag him bodily towards me with his legs up in the air and dive straight in to kiss, then lick, then swallow the head of his dick.

 

“Oh – oh _God!!!”_

 

Mmm, oh this is better, this is; tastes so – so strong and salty, like _steak_ , of course he would, no cheap cuts for he! Angling my head to the side, I slide my mouth down him again, this time deeper, and I hear noises of helpless appreciation, snorts, squeaks, gasps and growls, above me, and I reckon this style is suiting him good-oh, so I tighten my lips and start to pump my whole mouth on him, bobbing my head back and forward continual, taking great gusts of air up my nostrils in an attempt to keep going on him but keep _breathing_ too, it's a tricky endeavour I tell you!

 

Hehe, oh... What's that? I can feel... I open my eyes, ah look-it, he's as precious! He's touching his toes very gently, glancing them as if for balance, on each of my shoulders while he leans himself back on his hands, back arched upwards like a croquet hoop gorgeously, head thrown back and hair bouncing, and then he suddenly tips forward and looks down in almost horrified amazement at the sight of me just working that cock of his like a seasoned street pro. Like it, does yer sir?

 

Whining and whimpering he is, ha – OWWWWIE, he's just lashed forward with both hands and yanked great handfuls of my hair, at first I think he's trying to wrench me away from his privates but no, he's merely twisting his fingers through my hair, alternately pulling and patting at my scalp, which makes concentrating a little more difficult, but I keep sucking and he starts pumping his whole bloody hips against my face, and I can't keep going at that rate so being careful with my teeth, I give one last great extra tight slide and withdraw, rocking back on my hunkers and gasping for air, my lips and tongue feeling very curiously bruised and tingly and pressed-against.

 

Maurice is looking down at me hopelessly, sweat or tears sparkling his cheeks; drool reflecting on mine as I give him an affectionate, toothy smile and hold his dazed gaze as I as I bring my hand up to my mouth and lick my palm deliberate for slickening and pump him with my righty; I keep on staring into his eyes and breathing strenuously out of my mouth the way you do when you're running fit to burst, in, out, in, out, push his prick down and then pull it up, down and then up, down up down up downupdownupdownupdownup

 

“UH, uh, uh, uh, UH UH OH! OH! Aaaah... aaaahhhALEC!!” Waou!!!

 

Christ that was – whoa, it's everywhere! He's only gone and got some on my face – well, chin, and my neck... there again * pant * *pant *.. I was the one who was aiming. Or not! Mopping myself. Fuck. That was... fuck.

 

Collapsing back on the bed, his knees still dangling either side of me and his poor overworked prick sinking into a rest at last, Maurice pantspantspantspants – like that, little gasps like he were having an attack of some kind. Glistening with sweat, various parts of his body hair are gathered up with the wet in little curls, and I want to lean over and touch them so I do, glean over his heaving chest and belly, his body jerking to my palms, and I pop one knee between his and lean over him; I want him to stay with me now, not to just drift off with the pleasure of it, and hovering my face over his close, whispering, secrety; “You could feel that coming, couldn't you sir? I could tell. It still knocked you for six..eh?..”

 

He just gazes up at me, face crimson and pouring sweat, incapable of speech but he's able to respond as wonderful and loving as he ever done when I lean down for my kiss.

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And for some time, through wildest woe  
> Our hope has shone a far light  
> And now love's brightest summer glow  
> Shines with that solemn starlight
> 
>  
> 
> Today we come of age!

Chapter 26

 

After can be awkward. Very easy to flop yourself down beside someone, and even to wrap yourself round them, as he done to me, and me stroking his head, but besides that... I get the impression that he's not exactly going to nod off to sleep, if you follow, that being something what would make this a sight easier on me, on both of us, if he were only to think sensible, but I can tell he's going to muddy up this whole encounter with talk.

 

Talk had been what I were keen to with him up until now, only, it had been to talk him into the sack, as it were, which I done, and – and now what are we left with? What did we create, apart from passion? Try not to think about it.

 

“I never imagined – I mean I hardly -” Oh God, he's started already, a-stroking my arm that's around him. Here we go. “- that it could be like this.”

 

“Like what?” I respond cautious, aye and curious too.

 

“You. You're so... lively and audacious. It's so refreshing, I love it. I love you.”

 

I hold my breath.

 

Maurice: “I haven't felt so carefree since – well, since college, I should think..”

 

Alec: * shifting a bit * : “How much fun you could have up abroad in a library with your nose stuck in a book is beyond me.”

 

Maurice: “Aha, you fitted your fun in around your studies. At least, if you were wise you did!”

 

Alec: “Speaking of fitting things 'round other things..” and I trap his leg between mine down under the covers in a vain attempt to keep things basic, dirty, quick and mean between us.  


Maurice spoils the effect by pulling his head up off my chest and laughing into my face, that big beautiful smile that would melt a frozen lake, aye, and an iceberg with it.

 

Alec: “Deary me.. don't know about you, but I could do with a proper scrub! Only so much you can do with a pocketful of hankies after what we been at... Where's the maid with the jug and bowl of water when you need her!”

 

I lean over to the locker beside the bed in search of another hanky to mop my suddenly perspiring brow. This conversation is draining me more than the session done just now. Flame on top of candle flickers as I pat the top of the small drawers where I emptied my pockets and Maurice revolves himself around till he's lying on his front, his arms crossed on my chest and his chin resting on them, watching me intent.

 

“I say... what's about that thing you had earlier?”

 

Alec: “The what? Oh the – yeah, it's a well, medical aid, sort of thing, for to prevent against – bugs, as I say, and, getting girls into trouble, here's a fresh one, go on, have a look -” and he takes it and examines it like a scientist would.

 

I continue, “Freddy what told me how to use'em, though you really have to have a go at it yourself, still, his advice was a damn sight more practical than old Borenius, my word, he's about have a canary if he thought people even _knew_ about these things, leave alone have them, leave alone _use_ them!! Old Fred says: Lookit, Alec lad, you're going to go out there and let's call a spade, you're going to get your leg over. At _least,_ do you'self a favour and protect yourself from – venal, venereal or something – al- although -” and suddenly I'm flooded with panic, sitting up agitated - “not that I'm suggesting you have the clap or anything, sir, nor me neither! I don't have nothing, I was at the doctor two weeks ago in getting ready to go abroad, and it helps with emigration papers, and I'm clean as, I _prom_ ise you -”

 

M: “I didn't think -”

 

A: “You did. You _must_ have done! You think I'm catting around with all and sundry. That's what you've heard. And Christ.. maybe it's true! Maybe I do have an illness of the soul. I mean I bloody come all the way in your window uninvited, all off me own bat -”

 

M: “And I'm so very grateful for it!” And he grabbing my wrists easily to stop me from leaving, or me pulling my own hair, or whatever it is I've let go of him for.

 

Abashed, Alec: “I have – gotten round. But it's only been you, lately, I swear, since I first laid eyes on you, Maurice...”

 

M: “I believe you.” And he tips my face to his, my lips parted slightly already eager, only after one small kiss another slow smile of his, and he moves backwards to invite me to recommence our old position. I slide down the headboard to lie down again, and he lowers himself comfortable onto my chest in a way that feels totally natural, like easing down into your favourite armchair in the living room, no questions asked.

 

“So,” he fiddles with the Frenchy still in his hand, pulling it taut and testing it on his fingers. I try not to laugh, what a wide-eyed little school-boy he seems sometimes. “You were going to – to use this...? To -”

 

Alec: “Ye-es, well. I thought on it, there, but I tend to do whatever I feel when the spirit moves me, you might've noticed, and I suddenly felt like – if I didn't taste you that very moment – that I'd most die of it! Besides, full-on fucking” - his eyes widen - “ _can_ be fiddley to get right. All the different things you do to prepare... well. I do practice with the sheaths sometimes, on me own, so's I can put one on lightning quick! Hope I don't run out of 'em at this rate..”

 

He slides down a little, laying his hand on my chest and his face on his hand.“We'll find another opportunity before you do.”

 

That gives me a land, alright. Maurice... I'm no total simpleton. I know what he's thinking, hoping that what's here between us is a dream that will go on forever. When in reality... But he lies back on the bed himself now, pulls the covers down a little and opens his arms, wanting swapsies. I climb over and deposit myself on top of him, drawing the blankets up again and tucking them round us as he covers my hair in kisses, which get more and more intermittent as he drops off and begins to snore noisily. But that's not really what's keeping me awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deireadh an chuid a dó


End file.
